


Abruption (prev. Bloodletting)

by Vatteville



Series: Estate [1]
Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Disabled Character, Friendship, Gen, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Mental Illness, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Other, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2018-11-28 17:37:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11422854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vatteville/pseuds/Vatteville
Summary: Pantoul had to wonder: did trouble just randomly decide to follow xem? Or had xe brought it on xirself, somehow?(Nothing about the content of this fic has changed, bar the title. Sorry for any confusion.)





	1. Chapter 1

               Pantoul was tired, stiff, sore, and just a little bit hurt. It didn’t surprise xem that Lhuillier and Gaveston had barred xem from the barracks – and that was exactly the problem. Though xe knew it was unrealistic, from the Heiress’s letter xe had expected a _change_.

               This, xe thought, shimmying down the trunk of the tree xe had slept in the night before, was not a change. It was the same old shit as before – the same old exile, the same old skulking in the dark, the same old curling up in the least spikey tree xe could find, the same old anger… the same old heartache.

               And the Beast was _boiling_ under xir skin – not just at being excluded from the rest, but because xe hadn’t let it _hunt_ , even though _we were in a forest; it was the pitch of night; not even half a moon to show our misdeeds and malevolence._ The Beast knew xe didn’t deserve this. For all its faults – and good God, what a list of faults! – the Beast wanted xem safe… which, _apparently_ , was more than what half xir coworkers could offer.

               Snarling half in anger and half in pain, Pantoul shuffled for the Hamlet. At least the walk would be easy: the Beast had torn through the brush on its way in, providing a clear path. Pantoul wanted to be at the Hamlet early enough to join the next outgoing party; xe knew xe needed to prove xirself as soon as possible, so that the rest of the party might not ignore xem. Might give xem a place to _sleep, for fuck’s sake_.

               In xir half-delirious angry fugue, there was honestly no way xe could have noticed the other figure on the path until xe barreled head-on into them.

               “Rrghh,” xe grumbled, picking xirself up off the ground, plucking leaves from xir chains. Xe regarded the person before xem with narrowed eyes. Pantoul hadn’t seen this one before, but xe could tell they were from the Heiress’s ranks because they didn’t smell Hamlet-born. Their mask was askew, but they straightened it even before rising.

               “Damn—I expected you were an animal, would’ve run the other way,” they muttered. “Sorry. Be you hurt?”

               “No,” xe growled, still simmering from before. “What’re you doing. Out here.”

               “Hunting,” they answered brightly, brandishing their satchel, which was stuffed with all manner of nasty-looking plants. “You tore a very convenient path for me – if that was you.”

               “Sort of,” Pantoul said, shrugging, shaking xir head to clear it. “You with the Heiress?”

               “You very clearly already know I am,” they said, “and now _I_ know you are as well.” They dipped their head to xem. “I am Vatteville. The party doctor.”

               “Pantoul,” xe grunted. “’Spect you know what this means,” pointing to The Brand.

               Vatteville hissed through their teeth. “I certainly do.” They paused, fidgeting with their satchel. “But, then – why were you out here, if you’re an employee?”

               Pantoul grimaced, feeling the beginnings of a very familiar headache. “Others din’ want me in th’barracks.” Nosy, xe thought, and not just about Vatteville’s beakish mask.

               Vatteville just hummed thoughtfully. “Well, you were going back, weren’t you? Come.” They led the way back to the Hamlet. Pantoul was hesitant to follow, but as xe was going that way anyhow, xe had little choice.

               Not to mention, this was the best anyone had treated xem since the Heiress’s letter – which xe suspected was a script anyway – and xe was so utterly blindsided by this that xe was fully willing to not just forgive Vatteville’s prying, but to cling onto them and never let go.

               The Beast wasn’t as trusting, of course. But the Beast could _stuff it_.

 

* * *

  

               Vatteville _despised_ confrontation, but they didn’t think Pantoul deserved to go unspoken for with regards to the previous night. It was always a pleasure to yell at or near Lhuillier, who was for all intents and purposes an idiot, but they secretly hoped nobody else was in the barracks.

               Pantoul started fidgeting and huffing under xir breath as they approached, so Vatteville stopped to at least inform xem what they were doing.

               “I’m only going to try and talk sense into them,” they said. “You don’t need to make an appearance at all. If they won’t see reason, we must find some other solution.”

               “Why bother,” Pantoul growled. Vatteville winced under their mask; _why bother_?

               “Well, because you’re my patient, of course, and I daresay sleeping in the woods in a disagreeable body is not a healthy way to spend the night.”

               Pantoul didn’t answer, but by the way xe looked away Vatteville could see xe was touched, if guilty. They could work on that later.

               “So you wait here, and I shall confront them. Unless—”

               “No. I’d rather see their faces.”

               So xe had a bit of fire to xem. That was refreshing. Vatteville considered the pros and cons of simply siccing Pantoul’s demon on those who exiled xem.

               The Heiress would probably knock down the both of their pay for that, if not simply fire Pantoul on the spot. Talking would have to do.

               “Rise, fools and cowards!” Vatteville shouted in the doorway, banging the frame with a fist. “Which of you piggish bastards barred Pantoul from the barracks this last night?!”

               It was quite a show for someone only 5-foot-three. All present snapped up (save Dismas, who rolled onto the floor, obviously hungover. Vatteville suspected he was innocent, and felt bad for waking him. God knows he hardly got enough sleep to begin with.)

               “I,” boomed Gaveston, shuffling from the secluded far corner. Shit. He was the biggest one there; not even Reynauld could match him.

               “And I,” Lhuillier added.

               “Unsurprising; did you ban xem for thinking the Earth was round?” That shut her up. Idiot. Vatteville really _wasn’t_ surprised that Lhuil had cast Pantoul out; she didn’t have a lot of willpower or purpose outside of what she’d been taught. Gaveston, though—

               “What, only room for one mutated freak?” Vatteville spat. They hoped their hands weren’t _visibly_ trembling.

               “Judge me as you will, Vatteville. You exiled yourself; you have little room to speak over us who actually reside here.” The leper stepped forward to meet them, nearly two feet taller and almost hilariously outclassing them in bulk. Vatteville gulped.

               “Give me a single reason to keep this person out of the shared quarters that you cannot claim yourself,” Vatteville hissed, less in passion and more due to the fact that their throat was closing up from fear.

               Gaveston chuckled, a wet rasp. “We have no problem with Pantoul. It is the Beast we banish.”

               Vatteville felt the presence at their shoulder flinch back. So Pantoul did not separate xirself from xir demon in that way; how… self-aware.

               “Fine,” they said, seeing that Gaveston would not give, and hoping to escape with their life. “But see how you feel once xe saves your life, or the life of someone you care about.”

               “Life cannot be saved,” the leper boomed. Predictable. “Lhuillier and I _refuse_ to fight alongside that… thing.”

               “Your loss,” Vatteville said, lip curling beneath their mask. Turning on their heel, they grabbed Pantoul by the wrist and stalked out. Once they were a reasonable distance away, they slung off their mask and drove their foot into a rock. “Peons,” they barked, not just mad at their coworkers, but at themself, because _why would you kick a rock, you fucking halfwit_?

 

* * *

 

               Pantoul watched the irate doctor grab their foot and fall on their ass with mixed amusement and sympathy. “Nice,” xe commented of the whole venture.

               “Shut up,” Vatteville mumbled. “If you’re going to bunk with me, you had best be polite.”

               “Bunk with you?” That’s right, the big fellow had said something about them self-exiling. How… relatable.

               “Unless you fancy another night in the woods,” they said, rising and replacing their mask. “It’s across the main road, but not far. And – it probably isn’t – well. It’s not – you’ll see.” And they stalked off, with Pantoul quietly following.

               The first thing xe noticed (well – more likely it was the Beast taking interest, but Pantoul didn’t have enough energy to differentiate) was that Vatteville’s station smelled _amazing_. The herbs hanging from the support poles and piled on the shelves only accentuated the underlying scents of blood and rot that oozed from every corner. Pantoul could even smell honey, somewhere, which was uniquely enticing, as xe hadn’t tasted honey since xir youth. It was probably for some medicinal purpose, of course, but that didn’t make it any less appetizing. There was a tank of leeches – just a mass of slimey coils, so full was the water – which added an auditory aspect of smooth bodies slipping past each other, gentle rippling. Pantoul’s headache weakened a bit, but xe found xirself licking xir lips.

               “’S nice,” xe mumbled, and the Beast actually didn’t disagree.

               “It’s functional,” Vatteville said. “Beds are in the back. You can have the secluded one if you want; technically it’s mine but I usually fall asleep in a chair anyway. The rest are clean but there’s always the risk of having to share a room with a patient. I don’t have the coin for anything better.”

               They pulled their mask off again; this time, Pantoul made sure to get a good look at them. Slight, young – not _exceptionally_ young, past school age, but certainly several years younger than xe was – a permanent look of concentration on smooth features, only broken by an area of weak scarring on the left side of their face.

               Pantoul stood in the center of the room and watched as the doctor checked their leech tank. From behind it, they withdrew a jar of around twenty of the things, uncapped.

               “Damn it,” they whispered. Pantoul didn’t know a damn thing about leeches; xe saw nothing out of the ordinary with them.

               Vatteville took off a glove and fished out a clump of – xe snuffled at the air – fish, it seemed, sodden but not shredded. They glanced over and caught xem looking.

               “They’ve been acting off,” they explained, “so I’ve tended to them more regularly, these ones.”

               Pantoul slunk over to look, curious in spite of xirself.

               “Oh, you won’t want to watch if you’ve a weak stomach,” they said, peeling the bandages off their arms. Pantoul considered xir options. Xe _did_ have a weak stomach – but not with regards to watching someone perform self-bloodletting, so xe supposed – oh. How long had Vatteville been allowing these worms to feed off of them?

               Their forearms were studded with little, circular scars – the oldest appeared as spots, but the newer scratches were Y-shaped, some having been patched separately, and the largest with even a stitch or two.

               “They don’t hurt, but they itch like the devil,” Vatteville said briskly, picking up a pair of tongs and grabbing one of the jarred leeches. It affixed itself to their arm with no resistance. “There you are. Picky bastard.” They added a few more before one of the leeches refused to bite. “What, my blood not good enough for you?” the doctor grumbled, reaching for another jar, this one with just water. The thirstless leech was quarantined while Vatteville continued plucking out its companions.

               In all, the doctor finished with three leeches in the quarantine jar, and the rest in their arm. “They’ll let go once they’re full,” they said, shrugging. “Sorry. You probably – it’s not – I mean. For making you watch that.”

               “Y’din’ make me,” Pantoul said. “What’s gonna happen to th’other three?”

               “I’ll try again later,” Vatteville said, waving their leechless hand, “and they’ll either eat… or die.” A heavy pause. “No loss,” they said at last, shaking their head. “I’ve tons of the things.”

               They obviously cared for the worms, bloodthirsty parasites that they were. Pantoul huffed; that was unfortunately similar to xir own situation.

               “Here,” xe grunted, despite the Beast’s disapproval. “Try ’em on me.”

               Vatteville’s shoulders drooped. “That’s – heh. Yeah.”

               “No, ‘m serious. I got good blood, maybe they’ll like it. Y’givin’ me a bunk, ‘s the least I could do.” The Beast was just _writhing_ with fury. The good blood was only _ours_ because of _it,_ _you imbecile_. But Pantoul held it down. _It really is the least we could do; they’re the only one giving us a place to fucking_ sleep.

               Vatteville hesitated, then picked up one of the leeches – with their hand this time, seeing as the thing wouldn’t bite them. “You… are you sure?”

               “Yeah. Before I change my mind.” Literally.

               The doctor took xir arm in their free hand. “I need the underside – the soft area. They prefer an easy bite.” Turning xir arm, they let the leech wriggle around in their grasp over the skin.

               Pantoul held xir breath. Vatteville had said it wouldn’t hurt, but xe wasn’t going to let xir guard down for even a moment.

               The leech felt around (Vatteville was _also_ holding their breath, which Pantoul found amusing) before sinking its – teeth? – into the soft flesh at Pantoul’s elbow, its rear attaching a moment later.

               “Strike me down,” Vatteville whispered in awe. “I can’t believe that worked.” The other two leeches latched on just as easily, settling against Pantoul’s skin.

               Vatteville ushered xem to a table and chair, pulling a seat up for themself after. They let their leech-covered arm rest palm-up on the table. Pantoul crouched in xir chair, feeling somewhat vulnerable, and regarded the leeches in xir arm with mixed curiosity and disdain.

               “Nasty little buggers,” xe mumbled, enraptured.

               “They’re not from – they’re foreign. So I can’t – they often won’t eat the wildlife I bring them. I do what I can, and it’s not like I’m running out of patients, but… if I lose these, there’s no way for me to acquire more.” Vatteville sighed, head drooping. “I’ve been breeding them since I first traveled here, but more and more die off every month. What you see in the tank is less than half the supply I started with. I don’t have enough blood for all of them.” They laughed at that – at the thought of bleeding themself dry for a mass of mindless worms. It was a tired sort of laugh. “Thank you.”

               Pantoul grunted. It was only a couple of leeches. Xe used the ensuing quiet to muse over xir situation without interruption. Vatteville – they had straight-up, no-questions-asked _taken xem in_. They _knew_ the Brand, they _knew_ of the Beast, and – they’d let xem in anyway. _They had given xem their bed_. And all at once Pantoul felt something stir in xir gut, something brutally unfamiliar and absolutely, stone-cold _terrifying_. The Beast pushed itself back in; always did when xe felt – vulnerable. It simmered, pleased to be important, _needed_ , going on about how Vatteville – the doctor, it called them – was using xem to take samples, probably going to perform some sort of unmentionable experiments – Pantoul grimaced. It was xir own paranoia, what the Beast was feeding on. Like a – how fitting! – like a _leech_. Xe shut the Beast up again, with some _real_ effort, and attempted to divert attention.

 

* * *

 

               “How long’re they gonna stay on?”

               Vatteville looked up. “Oh, no longer than an hour, give or take.”

               “An’ when does the rest of ‘em leave – the next, uh – next – expedition.” Pantoul had diverted xir focus from the leeches only with extreme effort. Vatteville understood; they had a mesmerizing quality about them.

               “Not until afternoon,” they replied. “It would seem counterproductive, but the things around – they recede in the noon sun, so for a good start we leave later.”

               “Oh, ‘re you going?”

               “Mm, I had planned on it. But it depends on what the Heiress orders.”

               “Lhuillier and Gaveston won’t go wi’me.” Xe dipped xir head, looking almost ashamed.

               “Like I said: their loss. I suppose you’re a force to be reckoned with in combat.”

               “The Beast is. I’m more’f a… support fighter.”

               “The Beast? Are you on familiar terms?”

               Xe snorted. “Why not? ‘S in my head.”

               Vatteville nodded. “A fair point.” They idly stroked the leeches’ smooth backs.

               They sat in silence, long enough for Vatteville to eventually rest their head on their leechless arm and drift off somewhere between sleeping and daydreaming, only snapping back to focus when Pantoul tapped the desk just in front of their face.

               “Doc? They’re fallin’ off.”

               “Oh! Right.” Vatteville leapt for the empty jar and tongs, taking the bloated leech from where it wriggled weakly on the desk and setting it in the water. They waited as the rest slowly dropped one by one, filling the jar. A few of Vatteville’s had to be coaxed off, but this was nothing new, and they were used to removing the things.

               “I really can’t thank you enough,” they said; as awkward as the words felt on their tongue, they knew they had to make sure they conveyed their full appreciation. They wondered how often Pantoul got to hear a ‘thank you.’

               “Welcome,” Pantoul muttered. Not often, then. Vatteville cocked their head, but let it slide. This time.

               “Fancy seeing whether Firvet’s brought the orders yet?”

               “Fir – who?”

               Ah, right, xe wouldn’t know. “The messenger. The Heiress doesn’t usually commiserate with us lowlifes.”

               “Nn. Yeah.” Pantoul got up with a muffled snort. Vatteville caught a glimpse of their arm, still oozing blood.

               “One moment,” they said, digging through haphazardly stacked books and papers for the spare bandages. They really had to organize this place better. “Here,” drawing them out and bandaging Pantoul’s three bites, then tending to themself, wrapping both arms as before. They settled their mask over their face, too, taking a steadying breath. “Alright.”

               Pantoul angled xir head curiously. “Why both arms?”

               Vatteville shrugged. The pressure, mostly, but they figured that wasn’t a very sensible answer. “Don’t want myself looking like I regularly feed myself to the leeches,” they said instead, which Pantoul seemed to accept.

               The walk was quiet – thank goodness – leaving a moment to think. Vatteville fiddled with their dagger as they went. They had a nasty, cloying sort of feeling that Pantoul was taking to them too quickly. It wasn’t a shock – xe was obviously not used to being well-treated – which was a damn shame, given that xe was genuinely good-hearted – and it was flattering, in a scary sort of way – _but_ —! But Vatteville was the wrong sort of person to become attached to, because they knew themself better than anyone, and they knew they lacked a level of intimacy that people like Pantoul not only needed but _depended on_. It just wasn’t… _smart_ , to get close to people in that way, not in Vatteville’s line of work, and – through willpower, or habit, or perhaps it was innately fixed in them – they just didn’t have that sort of _desire_ anymore.

               They couldn’t bring it up, though, until they were sure Pantoul was _that_ sort of interested, or it would be presumptuous. Vatteville was petrified of falsely perceiving interest where there was none; petrified of playing mind-reader; how disrespectful. But they _really_ didn’t want to hurt xem, because xe had clearly gone through more than enough.

               The grass around the Ancestor’s statue was already populated with most of the rest of the Heiress’s hired hands, gathered in pairs or alone, no large groups. Vatteville and Pantoul arrived only moments before Firvet, a roguish, if weak-willed youth notable for their horribly clashing outfits.

               They had to catch their breath, panting comically with their hands on their knees. Then they straightened, taking a few steps back to avoid being penned in by the cluster of mercenaries.

               “Howdy!” They grinned, fake but not mocking. “I got the instructions right here.” They whipped out a letter from their (bright-yellow-and-white-striped) shirt and cleared their throat.

               “Today’s party – is, uh, le’see…” They squinted; Vatteville really needed to remember to give that kid an eye test. “Pantoul, Dismas, Dufay, an’ Guin-and.”

               “It’s pronounced Guin- _on_ ,” the Jester grumbled, shaking her head, jingling. “C’mon, kid.”

               “Sorry,” Firvet said, not really meaning it, but having good intentions. Vatteville was more concerned with the apparent party composition.

               “ _That’s_ – are you certain?”

               Firvet shrugged, showing them the letter. “Yeh, see? I can _read_ ,” they scoffed, indignant.

               They could indeed read, Vatteville confirmed, huffing in annoyance. “There’s no healer.”

               “I don’t make these decisions, Doc. Jus’ deliver ‘em.” Damn, that kid’s brisk apathy could really chafe the ol’ nerve endings.

               “No shit,” Vatteville gritted, nearly inaudible.

               “I’ll look after ‘em,” Dufay assured them. “Good to meet you, Pantoul. Didn’t get a chance to talk this mornin’.”

               “Yeah. You, too,” xe answered, more interested in his dog. Judge seemed to like xem, sniffing xir hand and immediately going in for a lick.

               Vatteville wasn’t convinced. Sure, these were all capable hands – they trusted Dismas with their life, and the others were _fine_ , they guessed – but it was still a serious risk, and if they weren’t there to make sure…

               Dismas looked Pantoul up and down before grunting and nodding; Guinand shook xir hand. “Nice to see someone who looks stupider than me,” she said. Pantoul half-laughed. Vatteville frowned; xe probably was more used to real insults than sarcastic ones.

               “Right, so you’ll be headed for the Cove, then,” Firvet announced, breaking up the introductions. “Shouldn’t be too much of a struggle. ‘S what the Lady said, anyways. I dunno, won’t catch me goin’ a foot past the bridge, but I ain’t gettin’ paid what you folks are.” A pause as they realized they were long overstaying their welcome, then: “Well, good luck, an’ all that.” And they sprinted off, (vivid purple) shoes thudding over loose cobblestones.

               Vatteville crossed their arms, if only because the leech bites were itching like mad. “You’d better all come back,” they grumbled, hoping the mask conveyed their irritation. And _yes_ , it was irritation, not anything… softer.

               Pantoul grinned. “The Beast will make sure we stay in one piece,” xe said. It didn’t take a doctor to diagnose xir confidence as ‘forced.’ Now it was Vatteville’s turn to think: _why bother_?

               “No, in seriousness,” they said, “if any of you imbeciles die out there, I’ll kill you.” Not bothering to wait for a response, they turned and hurried off.

               Stupid _fucking_ Heiress, sending them out with no healer. Even a Vestal would – except a Vestal wouldn’t work with Pantoul, so never mind. Even… No, Vatteville realized, gut sinking, they really were the only healer who would work with xem. And now they were stuck.

               Maybe another doctor would arrive in the coach, they thought miserably, ducking into their station and tying the entrance shut behind them. Maybe they’d have some extra leeches. Or a romantic soul.


	2. Chapter 2

Vatteville – forgetting conveniently that they were masked – tried not to let their face fall too far when the newcomer stepped down from the stagecoach. They didn’t mean to be disappointed – they knew, of course, that any hands would help – but, still – they had been hoping for another doctor…

Well, never mind. “Welcome,” waving a gloved hand, fumbling nervously at their belt with the other. The newcomer was short – around Vatteville’s height, though taller with the turban – and carried a skull with a candle protruding from the top. Vatteville had seen weirder curios; this didn’t upset them (a doctor bothered by bones would be some misfortune) but it was admittedly a surprising artifact.

“I am Vatteville,” they said, once he was on the same footing, “a healer.”

“Sigman!” the man chirped. “A scholar. And this is Fatima,” he said of the skull-candle. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, all nerves and excitement. Vatteville couldn’t quite tell if the man was eager or terrified.

“Perhaps you can tutor the Heiress in party composition,” they said, half to themself.

“No, no – my field is exclusively the occult,” he said.

Vatteville smirked under their mask; there was something inherently likeable in the way Sigman had interpreted their statement. “Ah, it wasn’t a literal suggestion,” they clarified, “only a venting of my own bitterness. The last group to embark lacked a healer and I was voicing my… disapproval. I’m sure your studies will be of service.”

“I should hope so!” Sigman shuffled in place. “My studies are my livelihood.”

“I understand completely,” Vatteville said, though something in them shrank back at just how true that was.

Sigman nodded fervently. “This – I don’t suppose you would, ah, give me the – the lay of the land, as it were?”

“Of course,” Vatteville replied, leading on.

* * *

 

A quaint town, Sigman thought, then laughed inwardly. It was a dump, to be sure, nothing like the community around his university, nor even the languidly self-reliant city he hailed from. Both places were temporary in nature: a college town that switched population by years; a warm port city that never quieted with travelers. Here the old stone and tired faces suggested stagnancy, immobility. There was a hopeless permanence in each façade.

Vatteville was a decent enough guide; not a conversationalist but gave the right information, all the places that could serve him, the gist of things. He prodded them for information with regards to the exact routine by which the mercenaries operated.

“The present party returns tomorrow,” they said.

“Ah, the ones with no healer?”

They waited a moment. “Yes.”

He hummed in acknowledgement. “One can hope they will not have fared too poorly.”

“…One can hope.”

Sigman regretted in that moment that he could not see their face for the mask; he quite suspected he had offended them in some way.

“The next group will leave the day after, then,” Vatteville went on. “And the rest of the week – if you remain, that is – in Hamlet, I mean – the week can be spent however you please.”

“I see.” Sigman decided not to press it; if he  _ hadn’t  _ made a mistake it would certainly be foolish to make a fuss over nothing.

Vatteville showed him their station – dreadful little tent; couldn’t the Heiress provide better accommodations for her underlings? – and then invited him in. He wasn’t sure if the invitation was genuine or simply a polite gesture, so he asked.

Vatteville chuckled. “No, I really would appreciate your company. I’d rather not be forced to wait alone for the other group.” Abruptly, they ducked inside. Sigman followed.

“Don’t mind the mess,” Vatteville said – too late; the place was a disaster. Sigman edged around the piles of books and medical miscellany scattered across the ground. “I always mean to tidy it – but it seems as if – well, there’s always something else going on.”

“You mean, people needing your treatment?”

Vatteville nodded, pulling their mask over their head. “That, and being called to embark. And – often, not always – I return worse for wear, so of course I have to – have to recover, myself, before I can work efficiently…” they sighed and rubbed a hand across their face. “But I don’t mind being busy; I really don’t – I prefer it over the waiting.”

“It’s been – some time, yes, since the last party ventured?”

“Two damned days,” the doctor said. Sigman congratulated himself privately for coming to the correct conclusion that they were frustrated from the wait. “If they die out there it’s the Heiress’s damn fault.”

“For not sending you.”

“Exactly.” Vatteville folded their arms across their chest. Even Sigman could feel the tension.

He frowned. “Of course it’s her fault,” he said. “You can’t do anything if you’re not there. It’s bad strategy.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Vatteville threw up their hands, startling him. “Sorry – but, really! Reynauld said it was a sound group because it was only a short venture – that’s a damn lie. He knows it’s a lie – he’s just – because Dismas is out there –”

They suddenly faltered, arms going slack. “Forget it,” they said, voice somehow thicker than before. “At any rate, they’ll return soon.”

Sigman shuffled his feet.

The doctor sighed, rubbing at their temples with both hands. “I apologize - I shouldn’t be burdening you with my personal matters.”

“Oh, it’s no problem! I simply don’t know what it is I should, er… do.”

A strangled bark of laughter. “Does anyone? There is nothing to be done. I’m sorry for spreading my worries to you.”

But they weren’t spreading their worries, just expressing them. He tried to explain: “No, no, you see, I - I don’t find myself  _ absorbing _ , as it were, your, your, er…” waving his free arm, “your worries. I’m not even acquainted with these people.”

“All the more reason for me to keep quiet about it! It’s not your concern.”

“No, but, what I mean is - for goodness’ sake! - you can talk however you want, is my point, and I likely won’t be too terribly stressed about it - although I do confess that in this particular discussion I find myself increasingly agitated! What I’m saying is that I wouldn’t dream of depriving you the chance to vent your troubles in the privacy of your station, my physical presence notwithstanding!”

Vatteville, after processing this speech, smacked a hand to their forehead. “Oh.” They laughed again, more genuine this time. “You - by the Light, you’re quite something. I don’t think we communicate very well.”

“No, I should say we don’t.” If Vatteville would just  _ say _ what they were  _ thinking _ , then perhaps—

“Anyway, Sigman, I see you’ve not packed anything with you.”

“I - what?”

“I’m changing the subject, friend.” Oh. Friend? Wait— “You’ve not packed anything. Have you any interest in human anatomy? I have some very intricate manuscripts you might examine.”

“Do they relate to my field in any way?” Sigman realized only a fraction too late that this was the most pompous reply possible. The doctor didn’t seem to mind.

“Unless I’m mistaken, you occultists have a fixation on the bloodstream?”

“Ah! Not so much a fixation as a necessary understanding: the movement of the blood - the flow itself, as well as the structure of the vessels - is the essence of any creature’s ability to tap into the Void.” Oh,  _ please _ let the doctor have some interest in the occult;  _ please _ let this be a chance to engage in thoughtful discussion - he’d not spoken to another scholar since before his Descent. He could feel the Void: behind his ears, a vacuum. It made his own blood rush, thrumming through his fingertips.

Vatteville dove for a sheaf of papers under a table. No, not a sheaf - only two or three pages, folded many times over. They had to rid their largest desk of books, then, for the space to spread the papers out— but it was well worth the wait. Sigman couldn’t hold back an awed gasp as the doctor unfolded the first of the pages - a full-scale drawing of the human body, with each prominent vein and artery in radiant color against the parchment. The image was in the anterior view, so not everything was visible, but to each side there were detail panels from various points and angles on the body.

“Where did you  _ find  _ such a thing?”

Vatteville ran one hand gingerly along the margins - even  _ those  _ were painstakingly detailed, little leafy curls and thorns. “My supervisor - before I came here, that is - he was quite a collector. Very interested in, in… acquisition of things.”

Of course, they didn’t sound nearly as excited as he did, but how could they? How could anyone?

“I haven’t seen something like this since my University days,” Sigman confessed. “He must have incredible connections.”

“He does,” Vatteville confirmed simply. “Perhaps with your University, even.”

Sigman tore his eyes from the page, feeling the negative pressure behind his ears increase marginally at the diversion. “Was he from a nearby kingdom? A veritable voyage south of this place, I believe near the eastern coast.” His University was funded on royal payments; in return, such kingdoms could expect any of the school’s resources - knowledge, personnel, equipment - at their beck and call.

Vatteville laughed, but it was a dark sort of laugh. “No. He and I are from the brackish continent. His connections, however…”

So they were back to vagueness. No, no, that wouldn’t do at all. “Go on,” he prompted, focusing on them fully.

They met eyes with him briefly, guarded and almost suspicious. “He… often was involved with the medical histories, of, of - royal families. From all parts of the world.”

There, now, that wasn’t so difficult. “Ah, so they would owe him favors, of course.”

“Yes,” Vatteville said, seating themself at the desk and turning their gaze back to the drawing.

“And he gave these to you?”

Vatteville put their head in their hands. “No, Sigman, he did not. I would  _ very much  _ appreciate it if we talked about something else.”

“Certainly,” Sigman said. Finally, some direct communication. He turned back to the drawing, letting it soothe the void aspect within him.

* * *

Sigman was a good distraction - too good, perhaps, as they ended up still discussing anatomy long past sunset. Well - “discussion” was perhaps too egalitarian a term - Vatteville didn’t mind, but it was Sigman doing the large part of the talking. It was a performance, his lecture; he had to move both hands while he talked, and the skull - Fatima - hovered over his shoulder. Every so often, he’d land on a particular note of interest, and her wick would spark a little with an unearthly red flame.

Occultism, of course, was not a topic Vatteville had studied in depth, preferring those fields more… organic. Still, Sigman circled around the same topics for so long, and in such detail, that it was no trouble at all to follow along with him. It seemed that the occult had more to do with the earth sciences than with biology; most of his comparisons were drawn to physical properties, not chemical. And even  _ still _ Vatteville couldn’t help but get drawn into his fevered speech. Blood was like an ocean, apparently. Perhaps the leeches, too, were extradimensional aberrations.

At any rate, it was late enough that Vatteville was genuinely surprised when Reynauld stepped through the doorway and greeted them. Then he saw Sigman, and faltered. “Oh, I - I was not expecting - so sorry to intrude.” He nodded once and started to back out, but Vatteville waved him back in.

“Nonsense, Reynauld, come meet our newest.” Reynauld didn’t often come over; they wouldn’t let him flee so easily. Probably worrying about the present venture; fine, fine; Vatteville couldn’t fault him. “Reynauld, Sigman; Sigman, this is Reynauld; a real Hamlet veteran.” He hated being called that.

“A pleasure,” Sigman said brightly, though Fatima had dropped morosely into his arms.

Reynauld made to salute him, then caught himself and offered instead his hand. “Be you some kind of doctor?” Reynauld asked as they shook.

“No,” Sigman said, “but some of my field may overlap with medicine. In fact, I was just talking about the structure of blood vessels in the brain--”

Reynauld held up a hand. “Ah,  _ I _ am not, I’m afraid, so learned.”

And he was squeamish - but Vatteville kept this to themself. “But what brings you here, Reynauld?” they asked instead.

He fumbled at his belt instinctively before remembering that he wasn’t wearing his scabbard, nor any piece of armor. “I - I, er…” Glancing from Sigman to Vatteville, he dropped his voice to a rare mumble. “It’s of little importance.”

Of course, too polite to request private discussion with Sigman around. Well, he might be too polite, but the doctor certainly wasn’t.

“A moment, Sigman?” They waved Reynauld towards the door. “Shouldn’t be long.”

“Certainly,” he said, before they ducked out into the street.

“So,” they said briskly, once they and Reynauld had left their station some distance behind, “what ails you, then?”

Reynauld sighed. “You’ll think me a fool.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Or a madman.”

“No, Reynauld,” they said patiently. They had a feeling they knew what this was going to be about, in which case they hoped Sigman wouldn’t mind if they sent him out mid-lecture.

“Or a blasphemer,” he said, voice rising.

“Not my call to make, Reynauld. Just speak.” They leaned back against the wall of the house they found themself beside; Reynauld propped his arm on the same wall.

“Fine,” he said, trying and failing to keep from glancing over his shoulder. He dropped his voice low again. “It’s another sign.”

Vatteville refrained from sighing in sympathy because they knew Reynauld would take it as exasperation. “It’s about the venture, right?”

He nodded. “Rats,” he said, and he looked as if he would say more, but cut himself off.

“Rats?”

He just looked so damn  _ scared _ , checking around and behind himself like he was scouting for an ambush, keeping his voice low in case someone was listening; Vatteville should’ve expected this sooner. “Scores of rats,” he confessed. “Endless, hairy tide - sprawling. Crawling.” His voice had gone so low it was scarcely a whisper; he was still mouthing the words silently.

“Was it in a dream this time, or waking? Reynauld?”

“Dream,” he said. Vatteville could see the sweat forming on his brow. “But - but, Vatteville - It was just as Malleville saw, before…”

Ah. Vatteville had nearly forgotten, it had been so long. “Reynauld, Mal was out in the Warrens; she was already wounded, already losing her senses, when--” when she  _ died _ , “when it happened.”

“That’s beside the point,” Reynauld snapped. “I  _ know _ it’s false, but I can’t - I cannot dull the  _ feeling _ . And if something  _ does  _ befall them - I won’t be able to reject the visions.”

The confession made Vatteville’s head start to ache. “Oh.” They focused on just breathing for a moment. This was uncomfortably close to their own fears, making it all the more difficult to find reassuring words. “If… if anything did happen, Reynauld, then as long as they make it back here, back to Hamlet, I’ll be able to take care of them. You know that. No one dies in Hamlet.”

“No one dies in Hamlet,” he repeated, softly. “Right. Yes.”

“And therefore the premonition will render false. Yes?”

“Y...yes. I suppose.”

“Good. Then all they have to do is live. And surely you trust them to accomplish that?” He nodded once with hesitation. “Say it.”

He huffed irritably. “I trust… that Dismas is capable.”

“Good enough,” Vatteville conceded. They waited for him to collect himself before suggesting they send Sigman to the barracks and continue the discussion indoors, or, if he preferred, start a different discussion entirely.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” he answered at length, “at least, no more than I have already.”

“It’s no trouble,” Vatteville assured him, but he shook his head.

“I’ve kept you long enough. You have my thanks.” He sighed and shook his head. “As usual,” he added, sounding annoyed with himself.

Vatteville smiled kindly up at him. “You were doing very well on your own,” they said, “knowing it to be false. You only needed some support. It’s what I’m here for.” He scoffed, but they pressed on. “I mean it; Mal followed hers without question and it tore her apart. You’re showing great constitution, even in simply sharing it with me.”

“Oh, hush,” he said, weakly smiling back. “The Heiress doesn’t pay you by the compliment.” He dropped his voice again, not in fear but in sincerity: “But thank you.”

Vatteville nodded, taking his outstretched hand and shaking it firmly. As they walked back to their station, though, they found the pit in their stomach had only grown. Perhaps they had managed to reassure Reynauld, but only by taking on even more responsibility for the absent party. And was it worth it?

It was, of course, worth it, to see even a little of that weight lifted from Reynauld’s shoulders, but that didn’t make them feel any better  _ personally _ .

They wondered if they could convince Sigman to continue his lecture until they fell asleep - unless the present party returned entirely unscathed, the doctor would certainly need their rest. Pushing through the doorway, they couldn’t help but smirk faintly at the occultist’s form, slumped over the desk, his hands spread over the drawing. Reynauld’s conversation must have gone on longer than anticipated; in fact, Vatteville was feeling quite sleepy themself.

A blessing, really, they reasoned, stretching out on their examination bench, listening to Sigman’s quiet breathing just a few yards away. Loath were they to use someone’s passionate lecture as a private lullaby. How rude. How very rude, they thought, letting themself slip into that semiconscious first stage of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would unquestionably die for Reynauld...
> 
> There's more loose worldbuilding than I realized in this chapter, LOL. Hamlet Healing Factor (HHF), different continents, blood oceans... I tried to keep it pretty simple, though.  
> Malleville was the first Vestal - Lhuillier from the last chapter is her, for lack of a better term, replacement. I don't really plan on writing about Malleville but she was cool, just delusional sometimes. /shrug; everyone's got something. Her grave might make a cameo, or she might show in a future anecdote, but really the only people who knew her were the other OG3 and Dufay from last chapter. Oh, and she and Vatteville just happened to have similar names. It was a good Stagecoach icebreaker but has literally no deeper meaning whatsoever.
> 
> Thanks for reading :P Sorry for the wait


	3. Chapter 3

If Vatteville were to go down the list of bad ways to wake up, ‘hiked over the shoulder of an ex-crusader and carried from your home’ would probably rank at the 3-slot, behind ‘on fire’ and ‘waking up in their former workplace to find that the past year had been a dream.’ “Reynauld, I’ll kill you,” they groaned, lacking the energy to yell. “This had better be an emergency.”

The knight didn’t answer, just kept running all the way to the square.

“Did you wake Sigman?” Nothing. “What time is it?” Nothing. “Can you at least put me down?”

“Be quiet,” he said, but he did set them on their feet in front of him, staring over their head at the old road. He looked terrible, eyes all bloodshot; he’d rolled some of his hair into little haphazard twists like he usually did when he was nervous.

“Reynauld. Didn’t you sleep?”

He glanced at them momentarily, but kept his eyes on the road. “Does the Light rest?” He sounded exhausted - hoarse and off-kilter in his speech.

“Yes, actually,” Vatteville said. “It’s called night.”

Reynauld sighed, rubbing his eyes with a hand. “Couldn’t sleep,” he grumbled. “Which you clearly already knew, so there wasn’t any point in asking.”

They sighed. “I’m only being difficult,” they said. “You need to try and relax.” Their position on his shoulder had given them a good feel of just how tense he was. “We don’t know anything yet,” they added, trying to sound hopeful.

Reynauld just stared blankly out at the treeline.

It wasn’t too much longer into the wait that Gaveston, of all people, arrived at the scene. He nodded at the doctor. “Greetings,” he told the knight. Reynauld saluted him on reflex, clearly preoccupied. Gaveston hummed at the response and shuffled closer. “Out here so soon,” he flatly commented.

“What do you want?” Vatteville growled, more than a little cold to the leper following the recent altercation.

Gaveston huffed. “I have no grievances with _you,_ ” he said, as if he found the very thought incorrigible. “It is a matter of principle.”

“I refuse to argue this any further,” Vatteville grit out, one hand rising to Reynauld’s arm almost protectively. “...You know why we’re out here.”

He nodded slowly. “I wish them the best,” he said. “I would not wish death on anyone - not even the abomination.”

Vatteville pursed their lips; this sounded like the introduction to a lecture - which was the _last_ thing they wanted to hear. “Gaveston, just go. Xe won’t want to see you here.”

“I did not plan on staying,” he droned. A pause. “You are bolder than I,” he said at length. “Giving xem a home. Beast and all. I have my feelings towards you regarding Pantoul, but one of those feelings is respect.”

_Then why don’t you act on it_ , they thought, bitterly confused, but they held their tongue. “Try and… ruminate on those feelings,” they said instead, trying for compromise and willing his absence in the same breath. “See whether - whether you cannot reach some sort of acceptance.”

He regarded them a moment. “I have been, and shall continue to do so,” he said quietly, then turned slowly and trudged towards the Abbey.

This was all too much, Vatteville thought, clutching Reynauld’s arm for dear life. A venturing party, a hyperactive occultist, a crusader with ideas of reference, and now… whatever _that_ had been.

Still staring dumbfounded in the direction of Gaveston’s exit, they only turned when Reynauld tore his arm out of their grasp.

The others had returned.

At first glance, there didn’t look to be a group, just one massive shape lumbering towards the brook. As Vatteville looked longer, though, their eyes could at length distinguish the four entities making up that hulking mass.

Shit.

_Shit._

They cursed aloud as they ran after Reynauld - a vain attempt; nobody was faster than the crusader when his armor was off. Dismas was lucky his boyfriend managed to skid to a stop before barrelling right through him and the others.

Reynauld was still fretting over the highwayman when Vatteville reached them - they were satisfied he would be thorough, so they turned their attention to the other three. It was Pantoul who took up the most space - no, not necessarily _Pantoul_ ; It was the Beast. It was a shock, to see it for the first time - its skin was ugly-purple like a bruise, with distended veins in its arms through which pulsed ( _visibly_ pulsed) some unknown green ichor. Snout and horns and legs and claws like an animal, but _just_ human enough to be recognizable; some uncanny man-aspect making it more unnerving than the concept alone implied. It was big, but - there was, Vatteville realized, a restrained aspect to it, somehow; a hunch of its shoulders, the way it bowed its head… Idly they wondered if the Beast was in a natural state, or if Pantoul had hold of some mental reins with which to keep it in check. Regardless, it didn’t appear hostile or enraged, and it had Guinand and Dufay, one in each veiny arm, cradled protectively.

The nonthreatening aspect soon fled - it _growled_ when they approached, lips curling to show massive, irregular teeth - long flat goat’s teeth on the lower jaw, dwarfed by sharp, doggish canines jutting down from the top. “Pantoul,” they said; then, when it narrowed its eyes: “Beast.” This seemed to appease it, either the name or the distinction, and it snorted and lowered its head but did not relinquish either mercenary.

Vatteville kept at least a pace’s distance but held out their arms. “You may not remember me,” they said carefully, “but I’m the party doctor. You can trust me with them.” Gesturing towards its burden; “Or just one of them, and we can take them to the station together.”

The Beast tossed its head with another snort, shoving its nose forward into Vatteville’s chest, forcing them back a step. It sniffed heartily, then drew back and cocked its head to the side. It said something, or tried to, but it wasn’t in any earthly language. Vatteville stretched out their arms again - the Beast regarded them a moment, then pushed its nose up under their left hand in the manner of a horse or dog. (And, speaking of dogs, Judge had been firmly planted at the Beast’s side the whole time, looking hale as ever - if anxious.)

“Right,” Vatteville said, quizzical, “you can - you can give me one of them, now.”

The Beast slowly allowed the doctor to retrieve Guinand from its arm, following close behind as the whole group, Dismas and Reynauld included, shuffled to Vatteville’s station.

* * *

Dogman was hurt the worst; the Beast could tell from the blood and pain smells that fell off him in waves. Bellwoman wasn’t doing particularly well, either, but Dog and Gunman were alright. That was good; it liked both of them. Especially Dog. Dogman had got in front of Dog and the Beast thought that was noble and good, but the action had of course resulted in Dogman taking a lot of hits, which was not good at all. Dogman and the others were fighting on the Beast’s side, which meant they weren’t allowed to die.

They could still die, but the Doctor - who it still didn’t fully trust; they smelled like old paper and that was very monk-ish, which was of course Hated - the Doctor could help; they smelled like bandages, which was the only reason the Beast even considered handing over an Ally to them.

It _did_ like the station, though, all green and rotten and a little bit wild. That little itchy feeling in its jaws started to fade a little. It had been there since the last battle, the feeling, and to be honest it was getting tiresome; the Beast wished it would stay gone. It kept resurfacing, though, every time it looked at the Doctor. Stupid itch. Grinding its teeth, the Beast looked down at Dogman. The itch subsided; the Beast always kept its head when there were Allies to Protect. It tossed its head a little in pride. The Beast was _very_ good at Protecting. Protecting, that is, via attacking things that were Hated.

“Watch the horns,” the Doctor was saying. Then they put Bellwoman on a long table and told the Beast to put Dogman down on a bigger one. It complied, but if it saw the Doctor use any Hated things it would Protect him immediately and no pleading would stop it this time. It resolved to stay on guard, even though its teeth were itching again, and its horns, now, too.

The Doctor was moving all around the table and asking things to Gunman while they did it. Gunman was alright, the Beast remembered, just weak from exertion; he’d been hit hard in the chest a few times, along with some minor slashes to his extremities. Nothing too serious, especially when this new man - noble, it thought, because of the worry-smells - was looking after him. Noble. Like a Knight. The Beast quite liked Knights, though it couldn’t place why. Something to do with books - but it didn’t like books themselves, because, as stated, old paper was a Hated thing. And anyway, thinking too long about it made their teeth itch.

Bellwoman had been hit in the head very hard, but she was already sitting up and pushing off the Doctor’s hands - which was very admirable, the Beast thought, but ultimately harmful to her recovery, so it pushed its nose into her face to keep her in place. This seemed to help. The Doctor thanked it, and went back to examining Dogman, who was still bleeding. He had been wounded in both legs and blood pooled sluggishly under him. One of those legs looked broken - granted, the Beast didn’t know a lot about bones. Dogman had passed out from the pain during the walk back to Hamlet but the Beast could hear his heartbeat while the Doctor stripped and cleaned his wounds.

Wait, what was _that_ smell—?

Someone entered the room. And he smelled _amazing._

Like… like… it wasn’t musky or salty, exactly, but it had a _feeling_ like musk and salt, like meat or the ocean - but it didn’t make the Beast _hungry_ like those smells tended to; it made it feel… still. Like the pause after a kill… _safe_. The Beast felt safe.

And the moment the Beast felt safe, the itching in its teeth and horns took over—

* * *

“Pantoul! Good to have you back,” Vatteville said, scarcely looking up from their work on Dufay. When had xe gotten here—? Oh, right; xe had let the Beast go out for battle - what was it that they had been fighting? - and the bastard overstayed its welcome. Once it was out of danger it usually let xem take back over.

There wasn’t any time to think about it, though; Vatteville was still talking to some short stranger that - that the Beast _really liked_. It was his smell - something dark and old, the way that the Beast was dark and old. The Beast wanted a deeper whiff but Pantoul stood xir ground.

“—don’t know too much about it but I can try,” the stranger was saying.

“Do,” Vatteville told him, returning to the desk and pushing Guinand back down by the shoulders. “Quit trying to escape,” they grunted. The poor doctor was all business. Three patients - and Pantoul wasn’t mint condition xirself; xe’d taken a few hits. But, xe supposed, the two at the table were higher-priority ( _no,_ we’re _highest priority; pathetic…_ )

Xe slumped onto the bench next to Dismas. Judge came loping up and dropped her head into xir lap, whining; xe lifted one tired hand to scratch behind her ears.

Dismas tapped xir arm to get xir attention, then made a few specific hand motions that Pantoul assumed meant something. The big man bandaging the highwayman turned to look at xem.

“He says thank you, for carrying the others.”

Pantoul nodded, suddenly realizing how winded xe was. “...Welcome,” xe managed.

Dismas pulled at his bandana to reveal his scarred mouth. “Thanks,” he said, doing one of the gestures. He repeated the motion a couple times.

Pantoul saw what he was getting at. Mimicking the motion; “That’s - that’s ‘thanks,’ then.”

Dismas patted xem lightly on the shoulder, smiling.

The other man finished his bandage-work and stood. “Reynauld,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m indebted to you as well - for protecting this one here,” angling his head towards Dismas.

“Pantoul; otherwise ‘xe,’ ‘xem,’ ‘xir,’” xe mumbled, slowly remembering what a handshake was. Of course xe knew - really, Pantoul, a _handshake_ \- but all those rapid transformations had addled xem, and xe was still recovering. “Protecting is mostly the Beast’s doing.”

Reynauld faltered, but caught himself. “Well, then, it has my thanks as well.”

Dismas seemed surprised at this, grunting something too quietly for Pantoul’s exhausted senses to catch. Reynauld shook his head. “I think xe has earned my trust - if xe has earned yours?”

Dismas looked to Pantoul, then back at Reynauld, nodding firmly. The simple gesture made Pantoul’s chest ache. Perhaps xe had prematurely scorned Hamlet; perhaps there was hope for xem here after all.

“Who’s… who’s the other,” xe asked, waving a limp hand at the stranger. Short, and dressed in a robe of some sort. A little uppity in dress and posture, xe thought, watching him a moment.

“Oh - that’s Sigman,” Reynauld said. “He’s new - only just met him, myself. I’m not sure what he _does_ , exactly…”

At the moment, what he was doing was waving his hands around a little skull. The skull smelled nice - ah, no, Pantoul realized; the smell was from the unlit candle atop it. Dry leaves and cinnamon. One of those comforting smells, cinnamon, like honey and the ocean. Pantoul was more than intrigued - and not just because the Beast had poked back in to share the olfactory sense, that greedy bastard. Xe held it down.

With all three watching, the skull on the desk suddenly levitated, its wick glowing a vivid crimson. Sigman tensed with his hands raised. Pantoul was hit with a wave of the strange, dark smell that surrounded him; the room went cold - Vatteville gasped almost inaudibly, and Pantoul soon saw why: Dufay’s torn flesh began to knit back together.

Reynauld and Dismas were equally shocked - “I thought only the Light…” Reynauld whispered, trailing off dumbstruck as the houndmaster’s wound healed itself. Pantoul was still entranced by the smell - not just the smell, the man’s entire aura; it made xem shiver and the Beast surged forward a little in its blind passion; with a struggle, xe clamped down on it - _you’ve had your time_!

And then that aura was gone as quickly as it had hit xem, all that energy diminishing in an instant as if no change had occurred.

The reverence on Vatteville’s face nearly matched the Beast’s; they put their hands together in almost a clap. “Amazing,” they breathed. “Sigman - _Sigman_ \- you said you weren’t a doctor!”

“I’m not,” he replied, cradling the skull in his hands.

“But - but - you could have - _told_ me—! Bastard! You’ll rob me of my job like this!”

“I could never,” he said simply. “Not my field of study. Besides, this power is… unreliable.”

Now, _that_ , Pantoul could understand.

“ _Light,_ ” the doctor murmured, in relief so strong Pantoul could smell it. “You’ve done me such a service.” They looked over Dufay once more, examining the new, clean skin. “This would have been a tough heal,” they said, “what with the - the tendons and - well - never mind. But I owe you.”

“No need,” Sigman said. “I am a hire as all the rest of you; this is simply my duty now.”

Vatteville smiled a little. “Yes - well. All the same.” They at last seemed to come back to themself from the shock of Sigman’s ability. Turning: “Pantoul! Are you hurt?”

“...Just bruised,” xe grunted. “Tired.”

“Oh?” Sigman trotted over. “And who is this, then?”

“Pantoul,” Vatteville said. “Xe arrived just the week before.”

Sigman - who was quite pretty, now that xe could see his face, sharp and thin - appraised xem cautiously. His eyes went first to the brand, then lower… and still lower, all the way to xir feet. It was uncomfortable in its thoroughness, this stare, and Pantoul found xirself squirming slightly. The Beast hummed a little, even its infatuation playing second fiddle to Pantoul’s disquiet.

“Fascinating,” he said at length, making Pantoul bristle in spite of xirself. _Fascinating_? What was xe, a new equation?

“We shall have to talk at a later time,” Sigman said. “For now, I think I may be hindering the doctor’s work.” Something in his tone was dark, but… not threatening. It calmed the Beast and made Pantoul’s brow furrow deeply.

“You _jest_ ,” came Vatteville’s retort; “You’ve helped _immensely_.”

But Sigman would hear none of it, simply turning and taking his leave.

Pantoul watched until he was out of sight. At the last second, just before he slipped out the door, xe saw - _something_ . A minute change in gait - something unnatural. It was as if he suddenly sported a few extra vertebrae, _something_ ; his walk was too smooth and balanced to be human.

They certainly _would_ have to talk.

* * *

Dufay was fine now, physically, at least, and Vatteville was able to move him to a bed - Judge hopped up next to him and laid her head in his chest, whines subsiding. When the doctor returned to the main room, they nearly had to tackle Guinand to the ground; only Reynauld’s quick step in front of the doorway prevented her from exiting it.

“Quit _touching_ me,” she hissed as Vatteville tried to guide her back to the table, even as she put a hand to her face and staggered.

“If you’ll stay put,” Vatteville shot back. The jester shook her head and gasped at what must’ve been a spike of pain, falling back to the desk.

“ _Fine_ ,” she spat. “But don’t _fucking touch me_.”

“And take off your mask,” Vatteville said, wrestling with their voice to keep it soft. She was obviously hurting; no need to irritate her any further.

Guinand tugged the thing over her face, finally revealing herself. Looked like she’d taken a hit from one of those skeleton’s clubs: an ugly bruise from the edge of her hairline down her cheek, reaching her nose. Something had likely fractured from the way it was swollen, cheek puffy and eye bloodied and nearly forced-shut. Near the cheekbone, where the blow had likely hit, the skin had split - blood was smeared all the way down her face. The bruise, Vatteville noted, was dark, and covered a larger area than just the site of impact - “When in the venture did this happen?”

Guinand scowled, raising a hand to cover the wounded eye.

Dismas finally spoke up. “Sec… second day,” he said from the bench, surprising them - the doctor’s focus during an examination was narrow.

“I’m assuming she didn’t show it off.”

“No,” Dismas confirmed.

The jester muttered something under her breath, too fast for Vatteville to make sense of it. “Hm?”

“Get it over with,” she growled at them. “Come on.”

Vatteville sighed inwardly; the minute she’d started cursing at them, they had suspected something like this. “Get _what_ over with,” they asked resignedly.

Guinand glared at them with her good eye despite the pain clenching her brow must’ve caused. “Don’t pretend you don’t know,” she muttered. “You have me at your mercy.”

This time, Vatteville couldn’t hold back the sigh. “Guinand, I’m the party doctor,” they said, knowing full well it didn’t matter what they told her. “I’m going to clean you up and get you to bed, and then in the morning you’ll be able to rise and drink it off, or what-have-you.”

She scoffed. “‘In the morning,’ eh? That’s a nice thought. Won’t catch me dead sleeping in this company.”

“Sure,” Vatteville said. “Hold your beliefs, but let me at least clean your wound.”

Guinand huffed, scowled, and muttered all through it, but she at least let them gently wipe up the dried blood and tape up the torn skin. She wouldn’t accept water, but Vatteville did manage to get her into a bed - so long as the doctor stayed out of her sight, in the main room. “And I’ll be watching,” the jester mumbled, clearly already half-unconscious.

Whatever, Vatteville thought.

Returning to the main room, they found Dismas, Reynauld, and Pantoul all sharing the bench. Fine. Yes. Right. “Dismas, you alright? Reynauld patch you up?”

Dismas gave them the thumbs-up and they nodded, more than a little relieved. “And you, Pantoul,” they said, crossing their arms. “Don’t tell me you made it out without a scratch.”

Xe wearily turned xir head. “‘M just tired,” xe said. Right, they’d asked before. Damn. “That Sigman guy… what’s he like?”

How does one even begin to answer such a question, Vatteville thought, shaking their head. “I don’t know; ‘intense’ might be a good word for it. But damn if he didn’t prove his worth on Dufay.”

“Mm.”

“Yes - what, what _was_ that, exactly?” Reynauld asked.

Good question. It had really shaken them, the occultist’s display of… power? It had _felt_ like a display of power, even if there wasn’t any corporeal force to contend with. It impressed them, truly; even so, a perverse unease accompanied the whole performance. Vatteville could only shrug, sighing. “He was talking about it - something about tissues and regrowth and nothingness and dimensions and - I’ll be honest with you, Reynauld, I wasn’t listening except for the part about saving Dufay’s life.”

“Fair,” the knight said; he seemed to cotton to how overstimulated they were and made as if to stand. “Best of luck with his recovery, then - and Guinand’s.” He helped Dismas to his feet (or tried to; as it was, each leaned heavily on the other).

“You get some sleep,” Vatteville ordered, suddenly remembering their job. “Both of you. And, Reynauld—”

“I’ll manage,” he said shortly, wrapping one protective arm around Dismas’ shoulders, not even giving them a backwards glance. Perfect. Typical! As soon as the two were out of earshot, they slammed their fist into the desk.

Pantoul jumped, and they realized they had forgotten xem again in the heat of the moment. “Sorry.”

Xe slumped back down without a word.

Vatteville sighed, scrubbing both hands over their face. Dismas could probably handle it, they told themself, and turned to face their last patient. “Come on,” they said, trying not to sound as exhausted as they felt - and, hadn’t they only _just_ woken up? “I’m sure you would prefer a bed to that bench.”

Guinand was asleep by now, thank the Light, and they suspected Dufay would be out a while yet. Vatteville waved a hand at the empty beds; Pantoul regarded them with xir teeth in xir lip.

“Not sure I can - I, uh - haven’t slept in a bed in - a while.” Xe shuffled xir feet. “What about if - if there was, if there was just a pile of blankets or something - in the corner? Sorry.”

“That’s fine,” Vatteville said, too tired to feel more than a flicker of pity. “Whatever works. You’re _sure_ you’re not hurt?”

“Th’ Beast takes a lot of the hits,” xe explained. How did _that_ work? Fuck, nothing made any _sense_ today. They piled up some spare sheets and bedding items in the corner by the doorway, and Pantoul barely hesitated before curling up in the middle of the blankets like a housecat. Exhaustion beat awkwardness, Vatteville supposed.

As they turned to leave, Pantoul raised xir head: “What’re you gonna do?”

Vatteville thought about it, one hand on the cloth ‘door,’ frowning down at their boots. Guinand still had that head injury…

“I have to get some ice,” they finally said, “so if you don’t mind me leaving the station unattended…”

“Th’ Beast’ll wake up.” Pantoul murmured the reassurance into fabric. “Don’t get stuck in the icehouse.” Xe paused as though surprised. “Sorry. ‘S what m’mother used to say.”

Vatteville felt themself chuckle, weakly, though their expression didn’t lighten. Where was their _fucking_ mask? Covering their face was, ironically, like a breath of fresh air. They took off for the tavern, deliberately beating back their anxiety with every step. So what if nothing had been resolved? No one was dead. They did their job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stanning the Beast since last week! Pretending not to be attached to your teammates since the dawn of humankind. Very, VERY tired. Vatteville™.
> 
> Fuck dude these bastards sure sigh a lot. Thanks for reading. If this all seems rushed... it's because I have 30-odd pages waiting in the wings that this work precedes chronologically. I don't regret writing this-! But the future stuff is gonna be so _fucking_ good.
> 
> Check out my cool new [Darkest Dungeon-inspired playlist](http://suan.fm/mix/ByTX5Exif) on the ol' suan.fm! At least look at the cassette; I did pretty damn good with what I had.  
> Also, I have [a tumblr](http://vatteville.tumblr.com) now (again), uh, in case anyone has questions or something they don't want to leave in an AO3 comment.  
> And these are linked in my profile, now, too.


	4. Chapter 4

The problem with the Barracks - besides the obvious crowding, that is - was that the only beds they offered were twin-sized. There’s nothing quite as uncomfortable and awkward as wishing you could share a bed with someone, and being prevented from doing so by the nature of the bedding. Nobody cared who slept where, but if two beds got pushed together someone _would_ fall through the gap in the middle and there wasn’t anything Dismas or anybody else could do about it.

So, if anyone wondered what exactly two grown men were doing with two mattresses on the floor, ignoring the perfectly functional bedframes not two yards away - well, romance, is what. Some wholesome tongue-kissing and the like. Fuck! Fuck that skull-headed bastard; Dismas was _done_ worrying about it.

Reynauld wasn’t, though; it was obvious in the way he kept looking away, kept tensing up under him. Dismas shifted his legs to the side, laying his head on Reynauld’s chest. “‘S wrong?” he whispered, right hand idly moving to the knight's tense jaw.

“It’s nothing,” Reynauld said, squeezing his eyes shut as he often did when he was trying to lie. Dismas was having none of that. His free hand rose to tap twice firmly on Reynauld’s sternum.

The crusader sighed and rolled his head back. “I was just worried,” he said, intentionally dismissive. “It was stupid and juvenile and I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dismas hummed into the man’s belly, then lifted himself on his forearms to look him in the face. When Reynauld still refused to explain further, the highwayman rose to his knees and moved around behind his head, lifting him by the shoulders until the crusader was sitting up with his back against Dismas’ chest.

Wrapping his arms around Reynauld’s midsection, he drew two fingers across the other man’s lips: _Tell me_?

“Nnnnh.” Reynauld laid his head back on Dismas’ shoulder. “It was just a dream,” he mumbled. When Dismas poked him again, in the stomach this time, he finally relented. “A nightmare. I - do you remember, when Malleville fell? - she had - she had a vision.”

Dismas barely remembered it; he’d been half-conscious with fear at the time. Not his finest moment. He tapped Reynauld’s side twice, slowly, a hesitant ‘not really.’

“She saw a horde of rats,” Reynauld said, “and that was - that was _right_ before the final blow was struck. Her last words were relaying the rats.”

Dismas did remember something to that effect, yes. He didn’t even remember Malleville’s face anymore, but the mention of a rat-horde sent a chill of familiarity down his neck. He motioned for Reynauld to continue.

“I was in the Cove, in the nightmare,” Reynauld said. “I was alone - there were shapes and shadows around, but they were benign; only there to give the place an evil aura. I was walking… I was near the sea,” he said slowly. “It smelled of salt on the breeze. I could feel it coming in from the cave mouths. And suddenly I saw the sunlight over the open water…” he cleared his throat and wrapped his arms around Dismas’ own, squeezing his hands a little. Dismas nuzzled into his neck, silently urging him to keep going. “And then it was - behind me, like a second ocean of claws and fur, wave upon wave of oily bodies and those beady black eyes - soulless black— I tried to step sideways but the dream makes one heavy - they carried me for just a moment - I was borne on ratback like a storm-tossed ship—” Reynauld had begun to gasp in his fevered retelling; humming into his shoulder, Dismas ran his hands up and down his sides, soothing. “Then - I was too heavy to float - I went under…”

He paused, a genuine, long pause this time; one hand rose to Dismas’ hair - at first he twisted it between his fingers automatically, forgetting it would not loc - then, remembering, his fingers carded through Dismas’ thick strands instead, shaking only slightly. Dismas continued his quiet hums, arms wrapping solidly around Reynauld’s middle once more. He waited like this until the other was ready to continue.

“It wasn’t like drowning,” he said slowly. “It wasn’t baptismal. It was - it was as if I were breathing in worms. I could - could feel them, writhing, in my chest - _everywhere_ \- the rats—” his breath quickened like he was feeling phantom movements inside his lungs; Dismas tightened his hold. “I woke up,” he said, “when I saw - there was something in the rat ocean, something they were burying - sunken deep below, and all furred and weathered from rat-water rot - swollen - and - and—”

He wasn’t crying, only shaking, perhaps too scared to sob. Dismas pushed as close to his lover as he possibly could, almost crushing in his intensity. He couldn’t ever recall wanting to _combine_ with a person before Reynauld. He wanted to be so close it hurt; he wanted to encompass everything about him. He wanted to become Reynauld’s pain and consume it.

“‘S alright,” he forced, almost cracking a tooth from how hard he had to clench his jaw. “Got you. Got you - got you.”

Reynauld’s arms were tight over his own; his shoulders taut. “It was _you_ ,” he hissed through teeth so gritted they put Dismas’ to shame. “ _In the rats_.”

Dismas pushed his face into the crook of Reynauld’s neck and felt his throat spasm with an aborted sob. One hand rose to stroke the side of the knight’s stony jaw - Dismas was shushing him, sweetly, not even aware he was doing it until he felt the air push back at him off of Reynauld’s skin. Once he noticed, of course, the ability left him - he settled for just holding on.

It was like a new dream, the eternity they spent like this. It existed outside of time. Neither of them knew how long it had been when they uncurled from each other but it had been long enough that their legs and backs were stiff. Dismas pulled Reynauld down on the mattress carefully, then lay next to him on his stomach with his head resting on crossed arms. Reynauld met his gaze, weary.

“It’s not - it couldn’t have been a vision, could it?” he asked, all forced nonchalance.

“Dreams,” Dismas whispered, closing his eyes to focus on making the words, “don’mean anything.”

Reynauld gave a long, shaky exhale. “I knew that,” he said softly, like he was disappointed with the answer.

Dismas moved closer, onto his side, touching his nose to Reynauld’s. The knight looked up at him. I’m okay, Dismas said with his eyes; I’m with you.

Reynauld nodded and swallowed hard, then curled inwards so he could push his face into Dismas’ chest. The highwayman let him, wrapping his arms around the other’s shoulders as Reynauld practically tried to inhale him. “Got you,” he breathed, and he felt Reynauld relax - only slightly at first, but gradually further and further as he succumbed to his own exhaustion. Once he was sure Reynauld was asleep, Dismas eased him gently onto his back in a less cramped sleeping position. He curled up into the larger man’s side and let his own fatigue consume him, sighing contentedly, one arm over Reynauld’s stomach and gently being lifted by the slow rise and fall of each breath.

* * *

Burkhalter’s bar, brothel, and betting hall, Vatteville thought. ‘Tavern’ was such a boring sign choice. Not that they had any right to complain about that, but it wasn’t as though they had the time to make a sign for their station - certainly not _now_.

Empty hours, this time around noon; only a couple of tables were populated. Sigman was at the bar - so that was where he’d scuttled off to - being waited on by the daytime barkeep, gruff lady named Greyson. She wasn’t fond of doctors, Vatteville knew, but they held no animosity towards each other personally - besides, at the bar she would probably maintain the service-worker’s façade.

“Doc,” she greeted them when they approached, “early start?”

Ha. Vatteville shook their head. “Just looking to take back some ice for a patient,” they said.

Greyson nodded. “Sure. I’ll send Omori down - unless you’re needing more than a cup’s worth.” Omori was a long-standing bar worker, but he couldn’t carry much more than two glasses maximum.

“No, that should be fine,” Vatteville said. “Head wound.”

“Mm,” Greyson nodded. “Who was it?”

“Guinand,” they said, and didn’t miss the shadow crossing the bartender’s face. “She’s alright, though - disoriented, but she’ll recover.”

“She better,” Greyson said, pushing up one drooping sleeve, then re-adjusting it further until both sides matched. “I like that one. Cheers up a room.”

“I can tell her that if you like.”

Greyson balked and just as quickly swiped a hand across the back of her neck. “Fuck off,” she scoffed, trying to pass it off as nothing. Vatteville snorted. “Omori—” waving the man over, “go get this beaky fuck a cup’a ice.”

“You could always visit her,” Vatteville suggested, serious this time. Greyson looked put-off by just the idea, but once again she tried to hide it. “It’ll be a couple of days before she’s back on her feet.”

“Just luring me to your little sick-trap,” Greyson huffed, fumbling with the rag in her hands. “Catch all kinda shit in there.”

“If you’re that concerned about it, I don’t mind cleaning before you arrive.” Vatteville hadn’t intended to do another whole-hog cleaning pass so soon - they’d done some work just that day, after all; Dufay _had_ bled all over their desk - but it wouldn’t be too terribly inconvenient. Besides - no healer’s space could ever be _too_ clean.

Greyson shrugged, still looking squeamish. “I’ll think about it,” she finally said. “If you let me bring Guinand a drink. And you _have_ to clean.”

“Done,” Vatteville said, remembering not to offer a hand to shake. “It can’t be tomorrow, though; there isn’t time.” Greyson nodded.

Omori hobbled back up with the ice and Vatteville thanked him, but lingered at the bar a little longer. “Sigman,” they said, and the occultist looked up in surprise like he hadn’t known they were there. “Alright?”

He nodded, looking… strangely nervous. He had a wine glass in front of him (next to Fatima) which was frankly hilarious this early in the day, but Vatteville didn’t want to make fun.

“Who, um - what’s - Pantoul is, xe’s got the Brand?” He was fumbling for his words all over the place but he _couldn’t_ have gotten drunk _that_ quickly. What was this about?

“Yes? If you’re going to say something prejudiced, don’t bother; I’ve had enough petty complain—”

“No, no—!” Perish the thought; he looked almost offended himself. “I’ve never seen it before. But it’s - it’s come up all the time in the readings - I just,” he sighed, tugging at his long sleeves. Vatteville was still wary, but he didn’t sound judgmental, nor did his voice carry that perverted fascination of a first-year medical student. If anything, his words had a sense of relief to them, as if he felt better knowing Pantoul existed in the world. It was… sweet, Vatteville thought, if strange. “I just - I want to talk to xem but I don’t think I - it might not be a good idea.”

“Why not?” The little cup of ice was wet with condensation in Vatteville’s palm, sweating over their hand - they’d not bothered to put their gloves back on, they realized, suddenly feeling just slightly more vulnerable.

Sigman turned to look at them and there was something dark in his eyes, something unnatural, something that wasn’t quite _him_. Not how the Beast was to Pantoul - the Beast, Vatteville had realized at some point during the earlier interaction, was something like a facet of xem, even if it seemed unaware of xir presence. No, the darkness in Sigman’s eyes was dull and foreign; he was like a tide pool with sand stirred up to clouding. The look told them all they needed to know and more. Something was in there - something was _in him_.

Sigman balefully turned back to his glass. “It’s fascinated by xem,” he said softly of the void-presence. “It _wants_ xem. But I don’t - I don’t know what _I_ want.”

Vatteville had to bite their lower lip to snap out of whatever empty stupor that stare had set them in. “I’m sorry, Sigman,” they said, not knowing what else to say. “I don’t know what you want, either.”

He sighed. “I don’t expect you to. I just wish… I wish I could be certain. Certain that a thought is mine and not - _its_. It makes it so difficult - not knowing which urge to follow; I can’t make decisions, can’t keep my head...” he trailed off, staring at his hands upturned on the bar before him.

Frowning deeply, the doctor gave this some thought. To them, the answer was surprisingly simple. Staying level in a crisis was something they had always excelled at; this was perhaps their only talent. And to explain…

They plucked a cube of ice from their cup and laid it on the occultist’s palm. Immediately Sigman drew back his hand, shaking the ice onto the bar. “What are you _doing_?” Baffled, he rose to his feet and stared Vatteville in the face; as expected, his eyes were now clear.

“The thought that is yours is the one that drives you to act,” they said carefully. “Your actions are always yours.” They hoped it didn’t sound like a sermon, this orchestrated advice.

Sigman frowned, brow furrowing in an almost endearing look of intense concentration. Finally, he nodded slowly, sinking back onto his barstool. “I think I understand,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Any time,” Vatteville said reflexively, and wondered what thought drove them to act as everyone’s counselor. But, then - it felt good to see Sigman’s temperament shift; it was a relief to see him relieved. If nothing else, they had done that much.

* * *

Sigman thought perhaps he’d misjudged the doctor, or judged them too quickly. For all their unpredictability, Vatteville obviously meant well. He wondered if there was anyone in Hamlet that they would be averse to helping. He got the impression that they wouldn’t even be able to ignore the plea of some hypothetical enemy - let alone an ally.

As he thought this over, suddenly Sigman became aware of the presence that had drawn him back to Vatteville’s station that morning - rather, the Void became aware of the presence, and Sigman felt its vacuum drawing him away. It was a shame; he’d hardly touched his drink (though, really, wine? - so early in the day, too) - but the pull was insistent, to the point where his feet sped into a run through the uneven Hamlet streets. Fatima hovered watchfully over his shoulder, wick already starting to glow, though scarcely visible in the daylight.

“Sigman!” Damn the doctor and damn the Void; he’d of course run on their exact path back to their station. He slowed to a walk but the negative pressure in his head wouldn’t let him stop.

“You - _oh_ —” Vatteville flinched, likely noting the emptiness in his eyes - naturally. “What - um - what’s the emergency?”

_Don’t let it talk; don’t let it talk; say something fast so it can’t talk_ — “It’s - the, the Brand - it can feel it? You’ve seen magnets, I assume, it’s - well, it’s _like_ that, except since Nothing is dimensionless it doesn’t weaken over physical distance, so there’s just always a - although it _does_ weaken, um, based on presentation; that is, um, most things have to share a space with such things - conceptual space, that is - but physically, because of the, the limitations of perception, the—”

“Wait - wait.” Vatteville held up their hands. They were fast-walking now, as was he; it was just that the pressure was so damn strong—

“That is - that is - a human won’t, won’t pull - unless the Void presence is, is, _visible_ \- that is to say, perceivable, in the human sense. I told you that it - The Being, for lack of a better term, that I have endured a link with - ‘the Being hates Pantoul.’ Oversimplification; it doesn’t feel a thing for _xem_ ; it’s—”

“The Beast,” Vatteville said, finally catching on. “It’s drawing you to the Beast, which means it’s out, which means - nothing good.” They rubbed one hand across their face, muttering a curse, before straightening. “I’ll race you there,” they offered, giving a dry chuckle.

‘Race’ was hardly the appropriate term; the Being - which had a name, but it didn’t like when people knew it (and it wasn’t truly a _being_ , in fact nearly the opposite; but _enough_ ) - gave Sigman an obvious edge. He couldn’t quite pass through or between things, but it was close - some of his schoolmates had once shifted all the dorm furniture two inches to the left, and Sigman’s mobility was something like the inverse of that - it was like the obstacles were dodging him rather than the other way around; as if the physical world wasn’t quite sure where he was. At any rate, the doctor never stood a chance, and unfortunately the Being - more of a Presence, really, he thought - refused to wait on them, rude as it was.

Sigman tried to call out a greeting but of course the Presence - perhaps the Manifestation? or - the Presence used his mouth to issue one of its own, in the null language (which wasn’t a language, really, but—), all throaty and, really, at this point it was being more than just a nuisance, because that _hurt_ —

And then oh no, oh fuck, oh _Light_ , _oh no_ \- something _replied_. It was in the back, through another doorway - and he could _feel_ the Presence hesitate. The Beast had asked a question. Focus, Sigman! He might not have much control but he retained his faculties and he could, at the very least, translate the conversation.

“ _What sound?_ ” The Beast had only a rudimentary grasp of the speech. Its pronunciation was fine, though, which implied—

“ _You have strayed from the flock_.” (Lit. “You have become something.”)

“ _Talk?_ ” It repeated the word ‘sound,’ but its surprise was clearly aimed at the fact that it was communicating with something.

“ _Are you alright?_ ” (“How have you become?”)

“ _How? Become?_ ” The Beast loped a few paces into the main room, head cocked, ears up. Sigman found himself impressed with the symmetry of the massive, ruddy form: most such creatures had wild variations across the sagittal, but the Beast only had prominent muscle imbalance in the arms - and, of course, the Brand, which Sigman thought was a terrible shame.

“ _You’ve forgotten the language_.” (“You can no longer hear nothing, in favor of speech decipherable through interpretation of sound.”) This was always the most esoteric of conversation: when the Void talked about itself. Sigman admitted his translations were not always perfect.

“ _I do not go home._ ”

“‘ _Home’? You are solid._ ” (Literal.)

The Beast whined at the insult, but still portrayed friendly interest: “ _Smell good_.”

“ _What_?” The Presence tried to push outward, forgetting its lack of limitations and therefore imposing such limitations on itself. Disgusted by its confused incapacity: “ _You make_ me _solid_.”

The Beast whined again, and looked as though it would have said more - an apology, perhaps - save for the sudden commotion from behind it: a growl, first, then two pointed barks. Whirling around, it slipped into the back room.

Now, if the Presence would only - yes! Sigman rushed forward of his own accord, with the Presence distracted, and followed the Beast further into the station just as Vatteville appeared in the doorway.

* * *

Dogman smelled of fear still, stunk badly of it, badly enough that even _that other smell_ (Voidman, perhaps, for a name?) couldn’t distract the Beast. He was on the ground near the far wall; Bellwoman was up and, though swaying on her feet, she had assumed a threatening stance, brandishing…? Brandishing her own soft-leather shoe at Dogman. A poor choice of weapon, the Beast thought, but so much the better. Dog was guarding, of course, but Dog wouldn’t attack an Ally first unless the Ally attacked.

Though, with the way Bellwoman was advancing…

Quickly, the Beast grabbed Bellwoman by the shoulders, trying not to yank her around too hard - it could smell the wound on her head even through the bandages. She yelped - it hadn’t been soft enough - and it pushed her onto her bed, but, it being disoriented from waking up only a few minutes ago (not to mention the ensuing conversation), she slipped through its hands and behind it, looping her long slipper around its neck. She wasn’t strong enough to do any real damage, but it was uncomfortable, and the Beast didn’t know how to get her off without improper force—

“Guinand--!” And then the Doctor had her by the hands and forced her off of the Beast’s back, putting her in a gentle headlock - something the Beast had never seen used in a fight, but appreciated. It turned and, remembering earlier, pushed its head into Bellwoman’s chest, halting her struggle. Voidman ran up to take one of her arms, and he and the Doctor held her between them.

There was a whimper from behind, then - Dog? the Beast thought at first, but it quickly realized that it was, in fact, the man - and the Beast turned and lowered itself until it was walking quadrupedal, sniffing at the prone figure. His fear-smell was so strong even with the threat nullified; the Beast whimpered a little at the thought. He was safe; the Beast _knew_ he was safe - its teeth were itching with safety.

Dog and Dogman alike were hesitant, but slowly the animal brought her nose up to sniff at the Beast’s muzzle - it hid its bilious tongue, carefully sniffing back. She licked at its nose, then rolled over to show her belly. The Beast brought one hand up and rubbed the soft fur there with its knuckles, keeping its claws folded in its fists.

This seemed to appease Dogman somewhat; his breathing and heartbeat calmed and he took one slow lurch-step forward on his knees. This aspect of calm was what sent that jaw-itch up across the Beast’s whole face, and this time it came with a wave of exhaustion, oddly—

* * *

“Judge - _Judge_.” Dufay had to clear his throat to raise his voice above a whisper. “Get off’a xem.” He snapped his fingers and the dog finally responded, licking Pantoul’s face one more time before turning her tongue to Dufay. “Aw, get off—” But he didn’t really mind; anything to draw him further from his fog of fear, finally lifting.

“ _Damn it_ ,” someone swore. “Guinand - quit _fucking_ moving.”

“Light,” came a new, slow voice from the doorway. “And you all wonder why I’m so quick to pass judgment. No wonder you were tearing through the streets; it’s as if a hurricane swept through this place.”

“ _Hello_ , Gaveston,” Vatteville groaned. They didn’t usually let exasperation get the better of them; must’ve been quite a day.

Pushing Judge gently to the side, Dufay could finally look around the room. It _was…_ _quite_ chaotic. Guinand in particular looked ready to explode - when had she acquired that head wound? She must have hidden it. And, hang on, hadn’t he himself sustained some heavy slashes? But he _felt_ fine…

Gaveston stepped in and took hold of Guinand by one arm. “Perhaps some quiet seclusion would clear your head,” he said firmly, offering no room for negotiation. “Come along.” Dragging her out, the leper was gone as quickly as he’d come.

“I hate this fucking job,” Vatteville said, holding their side - Guinand must’ve got in a lucky fist or elbow. Turning to Dufay: “And how are you holding up?”

Good question. He _swore_ he’d taken more hits - “Good? I think?” Patting himself down: “Was I - was I asleep, or—?”

“Eh,” the doctor said, with a ‘sort of’ hand waggle. “Turns out Sigman here has some uncanny healing abilities.” So he had been hurt. Right - the turbaned fellow. Dufay would have offered a hand to shake, but he was two yards away on the floor, and Pantoul was sprawled in front of him. And speaking of which—

“ _Fuck_.” Xir hands braced against the floor to push xirself up. Xe looked _exhausted_ , like xe’d missed a week of sleep— “What happened?”

“Many things,” Vatteville stated. “Notably, Sigman can track the Beast like a bloodhound. Isn’t that interesting?”

“No.” Pantoul scowled. “The Beast’s what woke me up.”

“Y’alright, Pantoul?” Dufay found his voice again.

“Tired,” xe mumbled; xe was squinting down at him. “Here.” Offering him a hand. Dufay accepted, and, upon levering himself to his feet, found himself quite unsteady. Pantoul, still scowling, held him up easily. Dufay noted xir unnaturally high body temperature; it was obvious pressed up against xem like this.

“Fuck,” xe muttered, lowering him until he was seated on the bed. “Are _you_ alright?”

“‘S that damn skeleton-thing,” Dufay said. It was all coming back now that he was clearer-headed. “Big blue phantom. Floating. Had him some kinda… summoning power.”

“Oh?” Now everyone’s focus was on him. “Perhaps you’d better give us the report,” Vatteville suggested, folding their arms.

* * *

It was always the worst when xe went to sleep and the other awoke, Pantoul thought groggily. Xe was resting xir head on the desk while everyone else reviewed the venture. The voices blurred into each other - skeletons and heads and ghosts and…

“Pantoul, you must have seen it.” Light, xe could’ve just _throttled_ them—

“Only f’r a second,” xe said, not bothering to raise xir head. “Beast saw it.”

Vatteville cursed.

“I could ask it - the Beast, that is, if it were willing…” No! Shut _up_! Pantoul was really beginning to despise this little upstart. Which, of course, meant xir headache started up - which was exactly what those bastards _wanted_ \- which—

“Can we… not. Do that.” It was such an easy request, Light; if any of them had any empathy at all—

“Ease off,” Dufay told the others. Thank you _so fucking much_. “Th’ transformation’s clearly a strain.” Oh, he had no _idea_ how true that was.

Vatteville and Sigman both backed down, and Pantoul relaxed a little. More so when Vatteville suggested they just ask Dismas about it later. “For now,” they said, “hm. Well. I believe there was rest to be had?” Alright, fine: the doctor was back in xir good books. Xe didn’t even wait for anyone else to agree before dragging xirself back to xir blanket pile, nesting up in the center.

Dufay took the bed closest to xem, which was… nice? It made xir chest jolt a little, but the feeling wasn’t _bad_. Similar to how xe had felt when Vatteville had taken xem in, but… fuller, somehow. Judge put her front paws on the bed - then paused, dropped back down, and stretched out on her side in the space between the bed and Pantoul’s nest. Xe reached one hand out and laid it on her back - her tail thumped against the floor, lulling xem to sleep.

* * *

The rest of the day, for most of Vatteville’s patients and allies, was spent in and out of either sleep, the Abbey, or, in Sigman and their case, heated alcohol-fueled discussion. After everything that had happened, they’d realized that a deeper understanding of - well - the Deep - would vastly expand their capabilities. And Sigman was all too interested in further explanation; his eyes caught Fatima’s glow as he gesticulated wildly in his lecture. The Presence, or whatever it was, that inhabited him, lurked but never exercised any control - perhaps it couldn’t, Vatteville thought, when he was so absorbed in discussion.

The Void _was_ fascinating, but - well, they couldn’t match Sigman in interest. And whereas their conversation yesterday had involved at least some of the doctor’s input, here it was all they could do to butt in and ask for clarification. They didn’t _mind_ , exactly; they just wished they had more to offer.

“I still don’t understand what you mean by ‘null language,’” they said, before he could change tangents wildly. “Is it a language or isn’t it?”

“It’s a language in that it’s used to communicate, but in terms of grammatical structure - there’s a distinct lack. And in terms of literal meaning… For example,” he began, and growled some unearthly noise, “that literally translates to something like ‘you join me on mutual terms.’ But that’s not what the sentence _means_ \- it means ‘I see you.’ And if you wanted to say ‘I can see you’ _literally_ , you would have to say—” another growl, but this one was completely unpronounceable, and was much longer, “which goes very in-depth into the nature of ‘seeing,’ because the acknowledgment of such a means of perception is not natural to such beings. In fact, it’s frowned upon - the phrase could be considered a mild insult. In the most simple words, it translates to something like, um, ‘Not only are you visible in the human term, but I also am accessing such means of perception.’ Does that make sense?”

“...I forgot what I asked.”

Sigman sighed. “Alcohol was a terrible idea.”

“Oh, I very much disagree. I could never sit still this long and listen to you were I sober.” Vatteville took a long draught of ale to emphasize.

“Is that - are you insulting my lecture, or your own attention span?”

A shrug. “Neither; it was a joke. It’s very interesting, Sigman; I’m just… well - it is _quite_ complicated. I think I understand, though - you say there’s no grammar?”

“There is, but it’s not - hm. Word order has almost no bearing on comprehension. I could speak the words in any order I wished and the sentence would be the same, bar a few exceptions.”

“And it isn’t, I don’t know, tonal?”

“Not… really.”

“Hm.” Vatteville nodded. “But you know it; you could talk to the Beast.”

“Oh, easily,” Sigman said. “If I were able to simply contain the - the Presence.”

“What’s that like, anyway?” Vatteville asked; they’d been meaning to. Besides Sigman’s mental health being of occupational interest, they were also morbidly curious.

He hummed in thought. “Have you ever encountered a rapid change in altitude? There’s a, a pressure in the head—”

“I’m familiar.”

“Perfect; it’s like that, only much stronger. It doesn’t have the same desires and motivations as a human, but with some embellishment its thoughts can be… translated, I suppose, into something at least partially comprehensible. It’s drawn to the Beast because it perceives an instance of, um, not quite _betrayal_ \- ah - corruption, I suppose; the Beast is offensive to it in a way, having become so linked to Pantoul. It wants to, um, take the Beast back, essentially; it wants to destroy that tether.”

Oh. Wait. “You mean it wants to kill Pantoul?”

“No, not - well - hm.” He frowned. “It doesn’t _want_ to kill Pantoul, but that is a - a necessary sort of casualty, um, by its reasoning, to return the Beast to its proper form - er, its proper _lack_ of form. But I wouldn’t worry - I have _some_ hold on it, after all, and it can’t rightly do anything when the Beast is, um, ‘out,’ as you say.”

“Right. Alright. I trust you to keep it at bay.” But did they? A little dark thought forced its way up: whose side would they take if the Pantoul/Presence opposition came to blows?

“Actually, I - I had a question for you as well.”

“Hm?” He really was the perfect distraction.

“I was - that is, um - the, the healing. Of Dufay, I mean. How did - how did I do?”

Vatteville chuckled in spite of themself; they’d not expected him to be capable of showing self-doubt. “Fine; how do you mean?”

“Well - he wasn’t walking very well, in there - in your station.”

Oh - they’d hardly noticed; it was a wonder he was walking at all. “Unless whatever methods you use inhibit further healing, he should make a full recovery within the week. Hamlet has an odd propensity for healing.”

Sigman nodded. “Alright. I confess I haven’t studied much anatomy, aside from - well - blood, of course. I did what I could, but there are so many tiny variances to account for—”

“He’ll recover,” Vatteville assured him. “If not, we can always have myself or the Vestal look at him.”

“Oh; of course.” This appeased the occultist and he relaxed a little in his seat.

The bar was mostly empty this night; certainly no fellow mercenaries to be found at the tables or booths. It was nice, being this quiet; a refreshing change from the tumult of the day. Well, not _quiet_ , not with Sigman there, but at least largely subdued. Unchaotic.

Vatteville took another sip of ale, noticing Sigman had once again left his glass - rice wine this time, a choice Vatteville regretted not making for themself - to stand untouched. “Do you only order to be polite?” they asked, gesturing.

“Hm? Oh,” his hand toyed with the thing; “I don’t - hm. I don’t really eat or drink as much anymore, not since - you know.”

“Ah.”

“I mean, I _can_ ,” he said. “There’s just - I just don’t - hm. It’s just not as reflexive, I suppose?” He wasn’t sure, then. Did he know he could just _say_ he didn’t know something?

“If you’re not going to drink…” Vatteville left the statement open, but angled their head suggestively, and he kindly pushed the glass over. “Thanks.” Their hometown had exported rice wine, though this particular drink was of a better make - the heiress’ money brought in a surprisingly high quality of goods, in spite of the shipping hazards. If Vatteville’d really cared about the quality, though, they’d have restricted themself to careful sips rather than their casual swig.

Well - enough; it was getting rather late. “Here’s _my_ thought,” they began, leaning forward a little: “All we really need is information - on this, this skeleton-thing that shook everyone up so badly. I think you should keep to Pantoul and, in the event that the Beast takes point, see what you can get out of it. I’ll consult Oxenmoor - oh, he’s the heiress’ right-hand man; he’s got access to all the old memoirs and things from the Estate - see what he has on the subject. Does that sound amenable?”

Sigman nodded. “How long until the next venture?”

Vatteville rapped the table with their knuckles. “ _Tomorrow_ , friend. You may want to practice sleeping at odd hours in the future.”

He sighed. “This means I have to sleep in your station, doesn’t it.”

Vatteville gave him a wicked grin; they hadn’t missed the disdain in his voice. “Not necessarily,” they said slyly, “but you wouldn’t want to miss your chance at talking with the Beast, would you?”

“...No,” Sigman sulked. “No, I would not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *puts in so many perspectives i forget who the main characters are supposed to be* yes...... perfect...  
> Sigman just fucking talks so much... a paragon of infodumping. love the bastard to death.
> 
> next chapter is filler but it's still just as well-written as anything i do and hopefully will keep y'all sated. :*


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up for mentioned past workplace-related trauma involving infant death.  
> no explicit infant death is described but you know, just in case.

Oxenmoor often frequented Vatteville’s area of town, but rarely stopped at their station. He handled a great deal of maintenance and oversight at the Guild, so the doctor tried there first.

“Oh, Light’s gone and blessed us again,” Jiàng said at the doorposts. “Vatteville, if you had yourself a machine what could stitch folks up on its own, wouldn’t that be helpful?”

Ah, the Guild staff must be having another impromptu socioeconomics discussion. “Yes, but—”

“What’d I tell you,” Jiàng said, looking over vis shoulder. “Oh, what, can’t come to the door?”

“I don’t have _legs_ ,” Ignoble huffed from within.

“Cry me a river!”

“Can’t do that, either,” came the response.

“I just need to know—” Vatteville was beginning to regret their decision. As lovely as Ignoble and Jiàng were - they didn’t have time for a casual chat.

“Are they wearing that dumb mask still?” Oh, fuck off.

“No, it’s night-time.” Jiàng shook vis head at Vatteville, faux-apologetic.

“I knew _that_ ,” Ignoble said, finally limping up to the door on only one prosthesis - the other apparently having been too much work to put on at this late hour. “Hiya, Vat. Hope you’re not looking for donations.”

Light. “Are you done?” Vatteville paused. “I rolled my eyes, so you’re aware.”

Ignoble laughed, crutches shaking. “Oh, come on. I can only make that joke with you and those damn nurses. ...Alright, what’re you after?”

“Looking for Oxenmoor. He about?”

“Hmm,” the guildmaster hmm’d, cupping a hand to an ear. “No, unfortunately. If you find him, tell him I miss his outlandishly heavy footfalls.”

“Stop trying to convince that poor man of your ‘heightened senses,’” Jiàng scolded, briefly uncrossing vis arms to put a hand to vis forehead. “It’s just cruel.”

Ignoble shrugged. “He _is_ too heavy on his feet. Needs to work on balance and poise.”

“He’s a brute force fighter.” Jiàng had an expression and tone that said ve’d had this exact discussion many times prior. Stifling a chuckle, Vatteville turned to go.

“Anyone can benefit from— Oh, are you leaving?” Ignoble waved to them as they went. “You might ask the blacksmith.”

“I will,” Vatteville called.

Making their way around back of the Smithy to the adjacent-built hut where the blacksmith lived, Vatteville hesitated, pausing in the little garden Hilsauer’s wife kept. Mostly foodstuffs, but the doctor was caught off-guard looking at the little purple flowers tucked in among the vegetables and herbs. Dropping into a crouch, one hand gently brushing tiny, clustered petals - they took a slow, shaky breath, then another. They could easily lose time here - _don’t get distracted; keep focused…_ These flowers often appeared on graves - Hamlet didn’t have a florist but Cantor did what she could with her growing-space - had she been letting Aguilar help with the gardening? Vatteville wondered.

They didn’t mean to let their thoughts spread so far out of the - out of the meat of the matter, but - the prospect of talking to Hilsauer and her family - they were all good people; that wasn’t the problem, it was just— Vatteville had trouble, was all, when there were - it was _just_ —

Straightening, forced on by their exigency, the doctor raised one hand to the door. One conspicuously bare hand; they desperately wanted their mask, too, but it _was_ late - they most certainly were _not_ shivering.

“One moment—!” Cantor, from inside. Damn it, damn it, damn it; that could only mean—

She opened the door with Aguilar on her hip and Vatteville somehow managed to smile and nod a greeting.

“Vatteville; oh, you must be looking for Hilsa. She’s just in the kitchen, won’t you come in?”

Aguilar cocked his little head at them and smiled. He couldn’t whistle, so he made his mouth into an ‘O’ and cooed a tune. It wasn’t fair, Vatteville thought, that they got so nervous around babies. It especially wasn’t fair because they had all the knowledge and, hell, even the _experience_ for neonatal care - yet it was the one service they were unable to offer. Wait - wait - Aguilar had addressed them.

“Hi, Aguilar,” they said, nodding to Cantor. _Just be courteous; just be_ fucking nice _._ They whistled back and he laughed. Relief hit like a physical blow as they followed Cantor further inside, but it was fleeting and they felt their heart again quicken. It shouldn’t - _they_ shouldn’t be like this.

Cantor put the toddler down and he clung to her leg, still watching Vatteville curiously. He looked hale enough, they thought, trying to quell their panic. And - he was nearly at the age, anyway, where the fear would ease up. That fear of, of… well - they couldn’t voice it but the fear was best summarized as a physical space, three feet long or so, encased in yew, and—

Hilsauer was cleaning up, but she stopped when Cantor led the doctor in. Slinging her dishrag over one broad shoulder, she regarded Vatteville with curiosity. “Didn’t think you were the kind to show up late for my services,” she said.

“Oh—” Pulled from their thoughts, Vatteville hurried to dispel the notion, “It’s not that - I was merely wondering if you knew where Oxenmoor might be.”

A relieved expression softened the blacksmith’s face; she pondered the inquiry. “Mm. He’s a tough one to track. If I were you,” she said, tapping her chin, “I might simply try the Manor.”

Ugh; that was such a distance. Vatteville sighed aloud at the thought. “Thanks,” they said, yawning into their fist.

“Mhm! ...Hey, Agi, don’t - _Agi_!” The boy had traipsed over to a cabinet and was halfway inside when Hilsauer pulled him out, rolling her eyes a little. “Mama says ‘no,’” she told him, and Vatteville saw his little face scrunch up in a righteous fury, and _they needed to get out of there right this fucking minute_ —

“I’m - um,” Vatteville tugged at their own hair to ground themself; “I’m going to go, sorry; I’m, um, I - don’t want to - um, the Manor. Yes. Be seeing you,” they stuttered, turning. They only just managed to cross the threshold before the boy’s tantrum began, not quite fast enough to block out the sound— They were so _fucking familiar_ with that _sound_ —

It’s _angry-crying_ , they repeated to themself; Aguilar was _fine_ , he wasn’t hurt, he wasn’t - those fucking _flowers_ \- _Light--_!

Before they could think they were dropping to the ground, back shoved hard against the outside of the little garden fence, knees-to-chest, hands-to-face. _Damn it, damn it, damn it; he’s angry, he’s just_ angry, _that’s all_ \- There was no way they could manage the walk to the Manor like this - they’d have to - shut up, _shut up_ \- They could go and get their mask and gloves, at least, from their station - _three feet’s probably a little too short for him_ \- Taking in slow, painful breaths through their fingers, shoved up against their lips ‘til it hurt - _they can’t afford yew, though; perhaps pine_ \- shut _up_!

They weren’t sure how long it took them to finally uncurl and stand, but their legs were sore enough that they assumed it had been a while, and if they thought they’d been exhausted _before_ , then, _well_. It was less of a walk back to the station than a dogged stagger; Vatteville never quite fell but their feet sure seemed to be trying. Those uneven stones - their toes ached through their boots when they pulled open the doorflap.

Dark, of course, but comfortingly, and through the back doorway there was a soft red light - they trudged in out of curiosity and saw it was Fatima, floating gently above Sigman as he slept. The calm glow illuminated him, and Dufay in the bed across from him, and to the right of that lay Pantoul, curled in xir blanket-nest, and - Judge was curled up beside xem, snuffling in her sleep - Pantoul had xir arm draped over her--

Involuntarily, some strangled whimper-sob left their lips - the juxtaposition of this scene with the imagined ones they hadn’t yet fully forced out of their head was almost too much to bear. Wincing hard enough to hurt, clapping a hand over their mouth, Vatteville fled back into the main room, praying no one had heard - hadn’t they all been asleep? Light, but they hoped so.

They took a moment to try and collect themself, slowly pulling on their gloves, holding the mask up to their face - regulating their breathing again. Some part of them wished someone from the other room _had_ woken, and would come in and say something - not comforting, necessarily, but at least distracting - but it was late and everyone was tired, thus no one so much as stirred, thus the back room remained still and silent and unhelpful, and thus Vatteville slipped back into the night with no reassurance save that which they gave themself.

* * *

The Manor library had two parts: first the public half, which had two entrances on one wall, along a hallway which branched off from the Manor’s main entrance; then, the private half - more like a quarter by size - which had three entrances on opposite walls: one behind a public-half bookcase, the second cut into the hill and buried in the hedges.

Fortunately, though the private half had, at one time, been something of a secret, Oxenmoor had advertised the building’s rear entrance to the mercenaries on orders of the heiress. He did _not_ advertise the fact that his own living quarters were directly accessible through the private library’s third entrance. At one point it had been something of a safe-room; now, he was making the space livable as best he could through careful maintenance and an obscene amount of unframed canvasses. Oxenmoor had not shared the location of his living quarters because he preferred to keep his business to himself, including such facts as his family history, his proficiency with a paintbrush, and his unique sleep schedule.

This last fact was, however, known by two very important people: the heiress, who knew _all_ such facts about her most loyal devotee… and the doctor, for equally obvious reasons. So while almost any other guest might have given up knocking after not receiving a response so late at night, Vatteville never even paused, and Oxenmoor set down his brush with a resigned intake of breath and opened the formerly secret entrance to the formerly secret library. On the bright side, at least the doctor hadn’t shared his sleeping habits with their associates.

“What can I do for you,” he greeted them, posture reflexively rigid. It was odd that they were here so late, but by no means unprecedented.

“Need some information,” Vatteville said, tugging at their cloak, which had obviously been thrown on in a rush. At least they, too, were inconvenienced. Oxenmoor hated to be so petty but he’d been quite enraptured painting horses and was still repressing his annoyance. “I don’t have a name for it but I have its description. Some skeleton-thing that glows and floats. And it keeps the heads of its prey.” They sounded hoarse; had they just woken up? Perhaps the mask muffled their speech. At any rate:

“I know exactly the monster.” He turned, letting the doctor enter and shut the door themself, and made for the collection of journals left by the previous owner of the estate. They were organized vaguely by location of interest, but this particular depths-stalker moved wherever the winds carried it, so Oxenmoor crouched by the lowest shelves and fumbled with the worn spines of the notebooks, bound books, and wrapped papers. He heard Vatteville pull up two chairs at the central table behind him.

The organization of the ancestor’s memoirs and scientific journals was by no means intuitive but Oxenmoor’s job required familiarity with the eclectic sorting. The entries pertaining to what the ancestor had dubbed ‘the Collector’ were all bound together inside a hideous yellow-leather cover.

“Oh, that’s an… interesting design choice,” Vatteville said once the book was lain before them, running a finger over the twisted-skulls-and-spines impression in the leather. The back cover had the same stamp, and along the spine was a row of little crowned skulls. It was one of the more intricate bindings, actually, though not nearly as impressive as the darkest volumes (which were, incidentally, locked up in the only secret space left in the private library). Even Oxenmoor was a little disturbed.

“The Collector,” Vatteville read, turning to a random page. There were drawings here of the thing’s hands, for whatever odd reason. Oxenmoor confessed that, while he knew where things were in the library, he had never taken the time to really read through the books - a lot of it was useless rambling, and all of it was nigh-impossible to parse for its tenebrosity both in prose and content.

“Thank you, Oxenmoor,” the doctor said, flipping through the pages. “This is far more than what I was expecting.” He could hear the enthused interest in their voice.

“It must have been a being of particular power or importance,” he said. “I’m glad I was able to be of service.” Vatteville said nothing further, already engrossed; Oxenmoor nodded and politely announced his departure, “...unless you’ve any other concerns.”

“No, this is plenty. Thank you,” they said again, looking up at him this time. Could they even read with that mask on?

“You are most welcome,” he replied, exiting carefully to his quarters. At least Vatteville was genuinely appreciative, he thought, returning to his art. The focus of this work in particular was on the sky; perhaps he would add in a flock of birds once he finished the wild horses. One of those massive, swirling feather-storms, all at once patterned and chaotic.

* * *

Sigman was awoken by the negative pressure in his head.

Letting Fatima float freely to illuminate the scene, he slid out of bed and sneaked to the sleeping Beast’s side. Like the dog beside it, the Beast’s hands and feet were twitching; unlike the dog, its eyes were moving behind their lids. Fascinating, but unfortunately not the most pressing matter. Sigman gave the creature a little shove, then another, until it curled its lips, head shooting up and nearly knocking Sigman off-balance.

“ _Get up_ ,” he told it, trying to keep his voice quiet - it was hard to moderate those growls. The pressure behind his ears was insistent but he could withstand it, so long as he remained focused.

The Beast huffed and rolled over, burying its face in its blankets, sighing through its nose. Damn it.

“ _Up!_ ” Sigman repeated, and again: “ _Up! Up! Up!_ ”

“ _You’re_ ** _bothering_** _me,_ ” the Beast growled - this was only one word, so it was an easy thing to mumble half-asleep.

“ _Talk to me!_ ”

The Beast growled - no words - and rolled back over to face him. It snuffled at his face. “... _Smell good._ ” Perfect, an icebreaker.

“ _I can explain, but I have questions first._ ”

The Beast grunted. “ _No time. Face itch._ ”

“ _What?_ ”

“ _My face itch. Go away soon._ ”

Ah, so it was aware of impending transformation in a physical sense. More fascinating minutiae that Sigman was certain Vatteville would be extremely interested in - _after_ this skeleton-thing was taken care of.

“ _I need to talk to you._ ”

“ _...Fine._ ” It was still sniffing at him. What could he possibly smell like? “ _Up. You talk._ ”

He led it outside, because the dog was awake and the owner was starting to stir, and they walked around to the back of the station, where it was darker and less likely for hypothetical passers-by to suspect dark doings. The Beast was pawing at its jaw a little, but didn’t make any complaint or other indication that it was losing its grip. Sigman wondered briefly what exactly it was that allowed it to stay at the helm. Perhaps he could ask it - or Pantoul - at some future time. “ _I need to know what you fought in the Ruins. It’s the big sculpted cave with many skeletons. I need to know about a big, blue skeleton that summoned others to fight._ ”

The Beast thought about this for a while, perhaps processing the language or perhaps simply trying to remember. “ _Yellow robe,_ ” it said finally. “ _I know it. Smell good but it was hated. Attacked allies._ ”

“ _I need to know how it fought._ ”

“ _It had help. Called home._ ”

So it was, then, another void-presence, either entirely or partially. Intriguing. “ _How did it call?_ ”

“ _Heads! Had heads_ ,” the Beast said. Then it elaborated, though clearly it struggled with the null-language: “ _Ate soul. Kept ropes. Pulled ropes for Void-soul. Void-soul took head._ ”

“ _Void-soul_?”

The Beast shook its head a little, like it was trying to clear its thoughts. “ _Void-soul... the nothing hiding inside the something. Fire has it - unshadow?_ ” The way the Beast used the language was absolutely unique (‘unshadow’ was literally the first half of the word for ‘negative’ and the words for a visible shadow, i.e., the human perception of shadow) and Sigman was finding it difficult to focus on the content of its speech, but he thought he understood.

“ _The - ‘unshadow’ - returned using the ‘ropes’ and became solid via the physical head; is that correct?_ ”

“ _Yes! And - made light._ ”

“ _Light?_ ”

The Beast’s foot pawed at the ground. “ _Light_ ,” it clarified, but this was a different word for light - not referring to a visible phenomenon at all but a quality of _something_ ness that was in direct opposition to the Void’s nothing. “ ** _It_ ** _is solid,_ ” the Beast said with clear pity. “ _All it has left of home. Ropes, unshadows, heads._ ”

 _Now_ Sigman understood. The thing was homesick. It was trying to ensnare as many negative human presences as it could, in an attempt to open a way back using the combined nothingness and their inherent Void aspect. What presences the thing _had_ collected could be tethered into their physical heads (similar to how the Beast was tethered to Pantoul) and used for further unshadow-seeking endeavors. Sigman wondered if it knew it was going about it the wrong way, if it simply continued headhunting because it had done so for so long.

“ _Sad_ ,” the Beast said, which was a lot longer in the null-language, with a lot of justifiers.

“ _It_ **_is_ ** _sad_ ,” Sigman agreed. “ _Thank you for answering my questions._ ”

“ _You talk_?”

Oh, of course. He’d nearly forgotten. “ _My name is Sigman,_ ” he said, using the less-tedious method of translating names which was ‘pick similar sounds.’ “ _I struck a bargain with a Presence after studying the occult for many years. Now I have limited commensalism with the Void._ ” Interestingly, ‘commensalism’ was a direct translation. “ _I am a solid being, but behind that is a wyrd channel maintained by the Presence._ ”

The Beast considered this, sniffing deeply, nose buried in his loose hair. “ _Yes,_ ” it said, a little uncertain. “ _Two smells. One meat._ ”

“ _You thought I was a Void-construct._ ”

“ _Hoped,_ ” it said, still breathing his scent. “ _My fault._ ”

Sigman didn’t know what to say; apparently the Beast had been as interested in using him as the Presence had been in ‘using’ Pantoul. It was difficult to admit, but for the first time in a long time, Sigman wished he knew just a tiny bit _less_ about something.

“ _Head hurts_ ,” the Beast complained. “ _Sleep._ ” It only used the ‘physical’ modifier for ‘sleep,’ but Sigman found himself, to his own surprise, uninterested in its grammar - uninterested in anything to do with its speech besides the content. Had he disappointed the Beast? What if he had just kept his distance - would the Beast still think of him with hope?

“ _Sleep_ ,” the Beast insisted, this time including the ‘human’ modifier, circling the occultist until it could push him along with its nose.

“ _I don’t need to—_ ”

“ _Yes. Human sleep._ ” Human human-physical-sleep; Sigman chuckled in spite of himself. The Beast pushed him towards its blanket-nest and down.

“ _Here_?”

The Beast lay down behind him, curling itself so its head could rest on his legs. “ _Had dream,_ ” it explained nervously; it raised its head to stare him in the face - big, dark eyes; sad eyes. “ _Smell nice. Feel safe._ ”

“Oh,” Sigman said. The phrase had no equivalent expression in the null-language, but the Beast huffed a gentle sigh and lay its head back down.

“ _Sleep_ ,” it reminded him, softly whispered. Human-physical-sleep. Sigman hesitated but - it was warm, and - oh, Light, was it _purring_?

He was suddenly too tired to move, and all he could think was that he hoped Pantoul wouldn’t be too shocked at these sleeping arrangements, should xe wake up instead of the Beast.

* * *

“Don’t bother with the Collector,” Vatteville told Sigman for what must have been the thirtieth time that morning. The doctor had left the library before sunrise to compare notes and had found Sigman sharing Pantoul’s blanket-nest, xir bony arms wrapped around his torso. Waking one and not the other had been a challenge: they’d had to dig up their old poking stick from behind a shelf, then convince Judge that said stick was _not_ for fetching. Still, they managed, and Sigman joined them in the main room soon enough to share information - a conversation which had quite literally lasted _hours_.

“You keep saying that,” Sigman said, with Fatima hovering right over his shoulder as though two people were arguing instead of one, “but there’s no way to _prevent_ it from attacking. This is a good way to acquire first-hand experience! A short, low-risk venture—”

“ _None_ of the ventures are low-risk.”

Sigman huffed. “That isn’t what I - _comparatively_ low-risk, then. Listen, it’s two heavy hitters and two healers; I really do think this is the way to go about it. I need to observe the Collector in person to assess its abilities.” Light, he just didn’t fucking quit!

“I can’t _stop_ you,” Vatteville gritted out, finally throwing in the towel. “If that’s what you want to do then by all means.”

“Alright, then!” Crossing his arms and letting Fatima fall into the palm of one hand, clearly equally fed up, Sigman stalked off to the center of town, likely to try and convince the others of his plan. Gaveston would be possessed with holy purpose and Lhuillier always appreciated a challenge; Reynauld wouldn’t argue with a majority; they’d all go skipping into the clutches of a giant Void-skeleton, and Vatteville would have to just shrug their shoulders and let them die! _Perfect!_

 _Light_ , but they were tired. Had they - no, it had been… the night before, when Reynauld - and—

“Hey.” Oh. Right.

“Morning, Pantoul. Sleep alright?”

“Nh.” xe said, shrugging. “Better than before. Thank you. For - um. Y’know. Givin’ me a place to sleep.”

Forcing a smile; “You’re more than welcome.”

“Huh. Yeah. What’s - was Sigman here?” Xe seemed much more relaxed than the day before, not to mention xir arrival. At least _someone_ was well-rested.

“Mhm. He left. For the venture.” Their head was… too heavy, it seemed - much easier just to lay it on the desk—

“Thought so. Could smell him.” Pantoul sat across from them and smiled, actually smiled; it reached xir eyes and everything. “You didn’t sleep.”

“You smell that, too?”

“Can hear it. Your heart rate is up.”

Oh. Impressive. “Everyone’s a doctor these days. ‘M gonna hav’to quit this job.” It was a joke, but right now it didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Damn, if they could just - but they still had to check up on Dismas and Dufay and Guinand - and Pantoul, too, come to think. “You bruised or torn anywhere?”

Pantoul stretched xir wiry arms over xir head. “Nah. Jus’ needed a rest.” Xe frowned, then, furrowing xir brow at them. “You oughta sleep.”

“Hav’to check on everyone,” Vatteville mumbled into their sleeve. “Make sure Guinand’s not still paranoid. See if Dufay’s walking better.” Sleep sounded so nice, though…

They forced their head up before they passed out at the desk; the sudden movement triggered a headache, which made them wince, which only deepened the pain. Typical.

“I could…” xe hesitated. “I - if you needed - I mean… could check on them for you.”

Vatteville smiled weakly. “No, no. If you wanted, though, you could come with me.”

“Yeah?” Xe sounded legitimately excited at the prospect, which was oddly flattering.

“Yeah. If I fall asleep on the job you can slap me awake.”

“I won’t do that,” xe said.

“You know what I mean. We’ll let Dufay sleep; come on. I’ll bet Guinand is in the tavern.”

“They got anything to eat there?”

They hadn’t even thought about _food._ Light, xe was a genius. “They do indeed,” Vatteville said, suddenly far more motivated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i guess the scarier thing is when a kid _doesn't_ cry, but tbh when does trauma ever make any fucking sense.  
>  i know the pacing in this chapter is a liiiittle funky but, well, you know, calms and storms and all that, right?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't warn for anything without spoilers but this is a vague warning.  
> canon-typical violence, perhaps; that gives away very little.

Pantoul hadn’t eaten since returning from the venture, which was all well and good for a regular human, but when one has to share space with an Eldritch pseudo-being… well, xe was, in a sense, eating for two.

“A carnivore, eh?” the doctor ribbed, hearing Pantoul’s request for ‘the biggest slab of meat you can afford to part with.’ Pantoul’s very poignant discomfort in the restaurant setting was tempered by two factors: one, xe was _voraciously_ hungry; and two, everyone at the tavern was either drunk or getting to it. Those folks couldn’t have cared less about what was going on in the corner booth - about who had what letter burned onto their face.

“I told Guinand to come by our table when she finishes this set,” Vatteville told xem. The jester was currently maskless, seated on a stool in one corner of the bar, providing the early morning guests with gentle, upbeat lutesong. She was wearing a blue-and-gold suit, almost military, but certainly too glimmery to be tactical. It made for quite a look.

“She’s doing that all for free - not even a discount,” the doctor said, frowning. “That is, the tavern gets plenty of benefit from the heiress’s business to cover all of our partakings, but - still, she doesn’t really get anything out of playing here. Save the extra practice, I suppose.”

“Mm.” Pantoul was - mesmerized, somewhat. This soft music wasn’t at all similar to the rapid chords xe recalled from the venture. It was nice; the Beast liked it, too, even.

A youth, probably a bit young to bartend, brought over a platter with what had to have been the largest ham Pantoul had ever seen. “Ah,” the youngster said, appraising xem with a pale green eye. “Looks like you could use some meat on your bones.”

Pantoul was half-embarrassed, half-impressed, all thankful. “This is - I’m - _Light_. Can you - whoever prepared this - my thanks.” Damn, it was like all the nice words just stuck in xir throat. Xir head bowed in shame.

“Oh, Kuo here is the chef,” Vatteville said; as if Pantoul needed another reason to be mortified in public. “Ze cooks from evening to morning, and Burkhalter takes over through midday. So don’t come here for lunch. Kuo, this is Pantoul.”

Kuo laughed but it was more polite than genuine. “Burk’s not so bad,” ze said. “I’m happy to serve you, Pantoul. I’ll befriend anyone with an appetite.”

“Thanks,” Pantoul mumbled, sure xe was bright red by now. “I ‘preciate the - the - um.”

Kuo rested zir hands on the table; one hand was missing two fingers and both were rough with burn scars. “Hey,” ze said, leaning in a little. “You’re welcome. But you don’t have to thank me. Just eat, and I’ll know.”

Pulling xir cloak tighter around xirself, Pantoul kept xir gaze firmly in xir lap. The young chef straightened and said something to Vatteville too quietly for Pantoul to hear with the blood rushing in xir ears, then trotted back to the kitchen.

“Kuo is a little intense,” Vatteville said kindly after a pause. “Very passionate about cooking. Ze told me to thank you for dining here.”

Pantoul nodded, an ugly, forced movement. “I’ve - I haven’t - it’s been a long time since I, since I ate in anyone’s company.” In fact, it had been before the big memory blank of xir adolescence. Xe barely remembered any of xir childhood besides vague feelings and a sense of being fundamentally different from the way xe was now.

Vatteville nodded. “I hope I’m pleasant enough company,” they joked.

“You smell like bandages and books,” Pantoul said, raising an eyebrow as xe tore a scrap of meat off with xir fork. “It’s utterly unappetizing.”

“Should I _aspire_ to smell like food?” Vatteville chuckled. “Please, put all thoughts of me - the sight, the sound, the smell - out of your mind, for total enjoyment of your meal.” They pulled up their hood.

Pantoul snorted, rolling xir eyes. “You look like one of them penance folks. Gonna set up in a line with a short-whip.”

“Who needs a whip? I’ll have absolution through sleep deprivation, thank you, Light. Keep a week’s vigil ‘cause the Light never rests!” They rapped their knuckles on the table to emphasize; they were growling a little at the end like they were mocking something, but Pantoul couldn’t imagine what.

“Hey, Vatteville?”

“Mm.” Taking down their hood, reminding Pantoul of just how damn exhausted they looked.

“You really should sleep, y’know. Guinand’s clearly fine; everyone’s fine.”

Vatteville stared blearily at xem. “Oh,” they said, waving a hand through the air - weakly, like even that simple action was strenuous, “I don’t think I could sleep, anyway.” Whispered as though it was a confession.

Pantoul frowned. “You look exhausted—”

“I _am_ ,” they said, closing their eyes for a moment. “But if I sleep now…” heaving a sigh, they shook their head roughly, jaw clenched; “Never mind. I _will_ sleep, once I’ve checked on everyone. Don’t worry about me.”

“I just—” It just seemed like they weren’t listening to themself, was all; Pantoul was only trying to help—

“Pantoul,” they said, leaning their head back to look xem in the eye - so _fucking tired_ ; Pantoul felt sluggish just from their _presence_ — “I’m asking you - please - just let it go.”

Who could argue with that? When Vatteville was sitting there with an exhaustion so potent it was like another entity sharing their space? - a comparison Pantoul wouldn’t draw lightly. “Alright,” xe acquiesced, and before the conversation could go any further it was interrupted by Guinand’s arrival.

“Ey, Pan,” she greeted. “Mind if I share your side of the booth?” Pantoul scooted inwards agreeably and the jester sat beside xem, propping her chin on her hands. “Vat. You’re not gonna scold me, are you?”

Cocking their head; “No? Why would I?”

Guinand shrugged. “I dunno. Made a mess of your station; hit you in the stomach, almost attacked Dufay.” Her tone was light but there was a lingering anxiety to her. Pantoul could recognize shame a mile away no matter how it was disguised.

“You weren’t yourself,” Vatteville dismissed it. “No, I just wanted to make sure you were healing.”

“Take a look,” Guinand said, leaning forward. Vatteville frowned and held her head in place with one hand, appraising the wound.

“Faster than I expected,” they muttered. “Even considering…” They ran one finger over the edge of the bruising. “How does it feel?”

“Not great when you touch it,” Guinand quipped, smirking. “No, it’s fine. Just a nasty bruise.”

“ _Light_ , but that’s fast,” Vatteville said, awed. “I suppose you’re fine, then. Do you remember anything to do with an enormous, glowing skeleton?”

“Is that some kind of consciousness test? I don’t; sorry.”

“It’s to be expected,” Vatteville sighed, “considering the state you would have been in. No matter. Thank you, Guinand.” Letting her pull away.

“That all?” she asked; she stood up quickly at Vatteville’s nod. “Mm. Sorry for making such a fuss yesterday.” She hesitated, bouncing on the balls of her feet, as if there was something she wanted to say - but the moment passed, and she mumbled a curse as she marched back to her performance seat.

Vatteville watched her go, then turned resolutely back to their plate. They ate as if it was a chore, something keeping them from doing other, more important tasks. Pantoul, on the other hand, ate like a person deprived. Both methods were rushed, and the rest of xir time in the tavern was neither relaxed nor sociable. Pantoul found some deep regret in that xe hadn’t discovered the reason for Vatteville’s refusal to sleep - xe felt like if xe only knew, xe would be able to help, somehow. The Beast-headache had started right when they had said that they ‘couldn’t sleep, anyway,’ but xe didn’t know why, or what it meant.

Vatteville had a compassionate front - they _were_ compassionate - but - they didn’t open themself to anyone. It was odd; they gave so much time to everyone else--

Xe made up xir mind.

“Hang on,” xe said once the pair had stepped back into the weak daylight. “Let’s see if Dufay is awake.”

“Mm,” Vatteville agreed, falling into step with xem. Pantoul held back a snort: perhaps xe wouldn’t even need to make them sleep; the meal, it seemed, had lulled them considerably.

Dufay _was_ awake, and looked up from the bed when they came in. His hands stilled from where they’d been combing through Judge’s fur for any debris.

“On the bed?” Vatteville complained, more morose than miffed. “Such a… mess.” Interrupted by a yawn; how timely. Pantoul decided now was the time to put xir plan into action.

“Dufay,” xe said. “Suppose the doctor looks a bit tired?”

“I _am_ —”

“Oh, for sure,” the houndmaster said, catching on immediately. “Did you sleep last night, Vat?”

They groaned. “Not you, too.” Wheeling on Pantoul: “I know what you’re doing. Stop.” Xe yawned and of _course_ they followed suit, though they were glaring fiercely after. “Pantoul,” they murmured. “All seriousness. There’s - I have to—”

Dufay sat up, and Judge with him. “No, hang on, Vat; you can’t take care of the returning folks tomorrow if you’re dead on your feet.” Pantoul gave him an encouraging nod over the doctor’s head. “Listen, I’m doing fine, you can trust me to stay put and look after myself - Pantoul’s obviously capable - what’s there to worry about?”

Vatteville turned their glare to him next. “I’m not worried about _you_ ,” they gritted, ducking their head a little. “You think I _want_ to stay awake?”

“No,” Dufay assured them, voice softening. “No, Vat, ‘course not. I’m just trying to convince you to at least go lay down. Yeah?”

“How am I supposed to argue against two,” they mumbled, anger vanishing. “Don’t leave well enough alone…” They sighed and slumped and it was like watching a fledgling fall out of a nest with how quickly their whole aspect plummeted into despair. “Fine,” they said, flat-voiced, “I’ll sleep. Don’t wake me until tomorrow morning unless there’s a real emergency.” So saying, they trudged between the rows of beds and ducked behind the far curtain.

“Thanks,” Pantoul whispered. Xe was getting much better at thanking, xe thought, which was nice.

Dufay smiled kindly. “No problem,” he said. “They can be stubborn.”

“Huh. Yeah.”

The houndmaster hummed, scratching Judge behind the ear. “We all worry about them, but they won’t have any of it. I’m just glad to see them rest. And did you go and eat?”

“Mhm. And— I brought Judge a piece ‘a meat - if that’s - you know.”

He laughed, full and hearty. “‘Course it’s fine! Be careful, she’ll love you forever once you feed her.”

Pantoul fished out the scrap of meat and extended xir open hand; Judge trotted over, daintily picked it up with her teeth, and - much _less_ daintily - chewed and swallowed. She pushed closer, then, nosing at Pantoul’s hand. Finding it empty, she licked xir fingers and butted against xir palm until xe chuckled and gently stroked her head and muzzle.

“Yep,” Dufay said warmly, “she loves you. She doesn’t usually let anyone but me touch her snout. You must be something special.”

Xe snorted. Special, xe supposed, was a very kind way of putting it. “Probably jus’ smells the meat on me.”

Dufay shook his head. “Don’t matter how good you smell; Judge has a nose for moral integrity. That’s how she got her name.” He paused, looking for a moment rather wistful. “Hell, she’s got a better nose for it than I do.” Shaking his head; “That’s how I know I can trust you, Pan. Beast or no Beast. But you know what?” He smiled as he stretched his arms over his head. “Judge’s taking a liking to the Beast, too.”

Pantoul’s hand stuttered in its gentle petting. “Wh… what?”

“She likes both of you,” Dufay said. “So, you know? I’m liking both of you, too. And I’ll bet you anyone who’s anyone in this town will agree. You got friends here, Pan. If you ever think you don’t - well, I got a smart old dog that’ll tell otherwise.” And a stubborn doctor, and a knight, and an ex-bandit, and a jester, Pantoul thought. Xir chest warmed a little at the notion.

Dufay stood and took a couple shaky steps, frowning as he did. “Hmm. Listen, I know you just ate, but I’m still feeling a mite unsteady - you think you could just help me over to the tavern so I can get a meal? ‘Course, you’re welcome to stay, if you like.” He grinned and offered Pantoul a hand.

After all of that, how could xe refuse him?

* * *

Dufay hadn’t exactly expected the conversation to end up here - frankly, he’d doubted Pantoul would even join him in the tavern, considering xe’d literally _just_ been - but he couldn’t complain. “Alright, you asked for it,” he said, reciting:

_“My services require my death_

_To last for hours, even days,_

_And as you touch me with your breath,_

_My soul, my light, start-stops and stays_.”

Pantoul shook xir head, fidgeting with xir cloak. “Mm… I dunno.”

“You barely gave it any thought.” Dufay shook his head, smiling. “Here, the key word is ‘light.’” It wasn’t his best, nor his most difficult riddle, but it had a nice bounce to it and he was quite fond of the last line.

His audience of one frowned, brow furrowing irregularly around the Brand. Dufay saw the sudden flash of understanding in xir eyes. “Oh - a candle, right? ‘Cause when y’breathe on it, it flickers. You make up the whole rhyme?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dufay said, shrugging dismissively. “Used to do ‘em in my spare time back when I was a marshal.”

“Yeah? I been meaning to ask - were you a city marshal? Or...”

Dufay chuckled. “Oh, no. No, we were jus’ a buncha hicks looking after a little coalition of small towns and farmland. Stole the rank names from equal parts military and police - I think there mighta been someone callin’ themself an admiral. It wasn’t real organized.” He sat back, frowning a little. The force had been more than disorganized; it was _poisoned_.

Absently, he reached a hand down for Judge to push her head against. The dog was currently under the table as far back as she could go, not to avoid tavern staff - Burkhalter was actually very tolerant of well-behaved animals - but because one of the tavern’s regulars was afraid of dogs. Dufay had kindly hidden Judge from their eyes.

“You should try making one,” the houndmaster suggested after a moment, nodding across the table. “A riddle, I mean. Y’start with the answer and work backwards.”

“‘S it have to rhyme?” Pantoul asked.

“Ha! No, ‘course not. ‘S more fun, though.”

Pantoul huffed. “I hope you don’t expect one tonight.”

“No, no,” Dufay laughed. “Just keep it in your thoughts for a day or two.”

A shrug. “Could try it. I dunno.”

Dufay hummed a little, quietly pleased. It was kind of xem to take part in his stupid little hobby. “I can give you another, if you’d like.”

“Shit, Dufay, how many you got?”

He laughed again. “I have so many of these damn things. Hell, I been tryin’ to write some about our coworkers.”

Pantoul snorted. “Yeah? How’s that goin’?”

Dufay ducked his head a little, embarrassed. He knew xe wasn’t laughing _at_ him - all the same, just the notion made him falter. “They’re alright,” the houndmaster said. “Kinda personal, though. It was s’posed to be funny but - well, the one for the doc starts with ‘ _take off their mask and another remains_ ,’ so, you can kinda see…”

“That’s good,” Pantoul said, to Dufay’s great surprise. “I think I got it - ‘ _most their bleeding leaves no stains_.’ How’s that?”

Perhaps he’d discovered some latent talent of xirs. “That was fast… I usually try for an A-B-A-B, but I guess a couplet could do. Er, that’s - rhyme schemes, I mean; I usually go for a four-line, um, sort of, pattern.” He ducked his head. “But that was good, though,” he said, quieter. He didn’t mean to go deeper into it; knew that sort of thing wasn’t very interesting. Light knows plenty of his former colleagues had demeaned him for it.

“No, hang on, we can make a four-liner,” Pantoul said earnestly, leaning towards him. “Something with the leeches, y’think?”

“Mm… gotta be vague about that, sayin’ ‘leech’ would give it away.” Distracted by focus, he scratched at his beard.

“Worms, then.”

“Uh-huh, sure; _with the worms they make their home_ …”

“Their bed?”

“ _With the worms they make their bed_ ; yeah, that flows better…”

He was worried that Pantoul might laugh or dismiss him somehow, but xe just nodded thoughtfully. “So that’s - so we have,

_“Take off their mask and another remains,_

_With the worms they make their bed._

_Most their bleeding leaves no stains_ \--”

“ _Most their stabbing leaves no dead_ ,” Dufay finished, beaming. “Amazing.” He felt a sudden warmth build in his chest, unfamiliar yet nonthreatening. Something about Pantoul’s honest smile - xir genuine interest - or, at least, he _hoped_ it was genuine…

“Suppose - suppose you made a riddle for me,” Pantoul murmured - and was xe blushing a little? “How… would you go about it?”

Dufay’s expression softened, gaze shifting to the side in concentration. “I dunno,” he said, considering. “Somethin’ using ‘half a mind,’ I think.”

Pantoul blinked as xe processed the joke and then xe laughed - laughed hard, laughed like xe meant it. A little breathless, like xe wasn’t used to the action, but a whole laugh nonetheless. “That’s - that’s really - I never woulda’ thought of that. If I come up with a riddle, you have to write one for me, yeah?” Xir fleeting eye contact convinced him of xir sincerity.

“Sure,” he said, a little awestruck, somehow. _Half a mind, but twice the heart_ , he thought.

* * *

When Vatteville woke, they could tell by the chill in the air that it was night. They weren’t sure what they’d been dreaming about, but they felt cold and stiff and viscerally upset, so they figured it was probably best not to remember.

They stood up and had to sit back down at the sudden vertigo. They swore under their breath. Of _fucking_ course they’d wake before they were fully rested. Light, they couldn’t have anything, could they? They could hear snoring in the other room; probably Dufay. At least that meant he was recovering his strength, they supposed.

Standing more slowly this time, they fumbled with the curtain, quietly making their way between the rows of beds. The Beast was curled up - it or Pantoul had nudged the blanket-nest closer to Dufay’s bed - and Judge was lying with her back to its. Once again Vatteville was hit with an odd sense of benign jealousy. Quickly, before the feeling could linger, they shook it off and headed outside - they just needed to _move_ , they thought. Needed to _go_ somewhere. They didn’t do well in one place for very long.

It wasn’t as late as they’d first anticipated, they could tell, once they stepped out into the brisk night air. The Guild lights were still lit, and they could see well enough not to trip as they trudged their way to the tavern. They weren’t planning on staying, just seeing if perhaps Dismas was there, or sparing a word for some other familiar Hamlet face.

Dismas _was_ there, taking a corner booth to himself - for all his speech problems, he could always communicate when he wanted to be left alone - and nursing a drink that certainly wasn’t his first. Vatteville slid into the seat next to him.

“Ho, Dismas,” they said, having to clear their throat from the congestion that had accumulated during their rest. Ugh. “What number’s this one?”

He often drank when Reynauld was out; it wasn’t surprising to see him like this. But evidently he wasn’t dangerously far along - he held up only four fingers.

“Should quit now,” Vatteville said, resting their cheek on the table. They hated waking up tired - worse than staying up, really. “They’re back tomorrow. Wouldn’t want to oversleep.”

Dismas shrugged. “Gon’ stop,” he assured them. “Won’ miss it.” True, he’d only missed Reynauld’s return once, and he’d been having a rough time of it then. He’d felt guilty for days after; Vatteville felt a bit bad for bringing it up. “Y’ight?”

Vatteville shrugged. “Was asleep,” they said. His eyebrows went up in surprise. “Shut up; Pan an’ Dufay made me; I didn’t _want_ to.”

Dismas’ expression softened and he chuckled a little. Nicest laugh in Hamlet, Vatteville thought. Shit, that’d be the exhaustion. Sleep deprivation didn’t always make them emotional, but when it did it was _always_ ridiculous. “Dream?” he asked, serious again.

“Yeah, but I don’t remember it.”

He patted them on the shoulder. What a good friend, they thought blearily. It was lucky they weren’t drinking, or they might start saying such things out loud.

“Hey,” Dismas said, squeezing their arm. “C’mon.” He helped them up and walked them out of the tavern. “‘S nice. Out.”

It was. The moon, a fat crescent, hung low in the sky, no clouds to block it or the surrounding stars. There was no breeze but the air was crisp. The darkness was heavy and comforting, unburdened by connotation. It was just _night_ ; it was natural; it soothed. Vatteville couldn’t keep from yawning.

“Y’go sleep,” Dismas mumbled, but Vatteville shook their head.

“Don’ wanna dream,” they slurred. They were leaning on Dismas so hard it would have looked as though they were the drunk one.

“Won’ r’member,” he assured them. He was walking them back to their station, Vatteville realized. It was such a touching gesture they almost started tearing up. Light, but they were sleepy. Maybe he was right; maybe they really _wouldn’t_ remember.

By the time they made it back to their station, Dismas was practically carrying them. They thought perhaps they were talking, but it was all stream-of-consciousness murmurs and they didn’t have any idea what they were saying. Dismas was smiling, though, so they supposed it was nice; so long as it wasn’t anything mean, they supposed. Or embarrassing… but then, what did it matter, really?

Dismas had to support them all the way to their bed for their exhaustion. They did try to thank him - Light, he didn’t have to do any of that - but he just grinned and pushed them down. They _must_ be saying something stupid, Vatteville thought, but they couldn’t find the energy to care. Ideally, they thought, they would forget this whole small waking had ever occurred. Ideally, they thought, they might sleep until morning and come to find everything had gone swimmingly. They were too tired to worry, for once. It was a warm, syrupy feeling, weighing them down. Down and down and down.

* * *

Reynauld usually woke early and yesterday morning had been no exception; loath was he to break routine; still, he felt sluggish. He didn’t mind venturing this week, especially if it meant Dismas could rest up in Hamlet - but he always wished he could spend more time with his lover. Putting on armor wasn’t romantic no matter how one spun it. Idly he considered the concept of a fuller Barracks - there’d have to be some money and time put in, but surely with more people there would be more time to spend in town.

Though, considering the arrival of Pantoul and this other - Sigman, it was - Reynauld supposed the ranks were looking more supple these days. Hadn’t it been only a couple of months since it had been just those first four, hale and intrepid, all raring to delve into the meat of what unholy mass lurked in the estate?

Malleville hadn’t yet slipped his thoughts - if anything, this venture she haunted, it being a Warrens affair. Reynauld thought he hated the whole of the estate equally across all regions, but due to the recent vision - no, _dream_ \- the pigpen dungeons gave him greater pause.

Sigman, interestingly, for all his manic interest prior to leaving, was now similarly hesitant. Perhaps it was the smell - Reynauld himself only kept from balking by the knowledge that there were far worse scents than pig-rot and excrement. Old corpse smell, new corpse smell - it didn’t faze him. Perhaps if the pigs _cooked_ their meals - but best to not think on that too much.

Gaveston had endured most of the damage, Lhuillier and Sigman each focusing on holding each other up via their alternating healing abilities. Neither of them took hits well, but Sigman had proved nimble enough to dodge the odd crossbow bolt or ball and chain. Ultimately, as the group came near to the last few rooms, nobody was damaged beyond reason, though Gaveston had plowed through five separate instances of blight.

“It’s rain to an ocean,” he’d said dryly when Lhuillier had asked of his condition back at the second or third instance. She hadn’t inquired again. That was just how he was, though: staunch and steady. It mattered little whether Reynauld agreed with the leper on the matter of Pantoul’s residence or not; the man could not be swayed.

If he was quite honest, Reynauld preferred that Pantoul stay with Vatteville, too, though for different reasons entirely. First being that xe would only be mistreated with Gaveston and Lhuillier about - and xe deserved to be treated well, regardless of condition. Second, and he would never speak this aloud, but Vatteville frankly needed the company. Always stuck in their station with no one but the sick and hurt; it wasn’t healthy - not when it got to the point that they self-regulated all their contact the way they did, withdrawing even outside of situations that called for it. If they only—

“Reynauld.”

He came back to himself elbow-deep in a thrown backpack. “Hm?”

“Not reverting to your old tricks, are you?” Gaveston boomed, intimidating even covered head-to-toe in pig-bile.

“No; apologies. Only searching.” He’d not had the thief’s impulse since the Sanitarium. There were some stones in the bag, and a torch, and an ugly blood-pukestain - Reynauld wondered if it had been the explorer’s or their assailant’s.

Gaveston hummed, leaning hard on his sword. “Sigman, I suppose we should be suitably emburdened to lure out this headhunter.”

“About that,” the man piped up from behind as Reynauld tucked away the gems, “I’m not sure it’s wise now - you're in no perfect state, after all, and—” Of course _now_ he would change his tune. What was it he had preached earlier, about revenge for the previous party? Reynauld had no vengeful desire; not so long as everyone was alive. He knew he didn’t look it, but he was cautious with new hazards. Gaveston, on the other hand…

“Nonsense,” the leper spoke, straightening to full height. “I’ve heard enough to know that this _Collector_ is a pox upon this estate.” He paused. “And I think I know poxes.” It might’ve been funny if he wasn’t shaking with the effort of keeping himself upright.

“I certainly want this thing gone,” Lhuillier said. “Gaveston, if you think you can continue, I’m with you.”

Reynauld had the uncomfortable-yet-comforting thought that Vatteville would have sided with him on this one; frankly he was surprised the doctor hadn’t seen them off with a warning.

“I’ll manage,” Gaveston said. “We must drive out this evil.” There was no arguing with him. Reynauld dipped his head and conceded.

“There’s no guarantee that it will even deign to attack,” Sigman said, and Reynauld could see his little skull-candle’s light wavering anxiously. “We only have a few rooms left, after all.”

“We’re stuffed to the gills with loot,” Lhuillier said. “If it’s truly lured by riches, we’re like flowers to bees.”

They always did make the most reassuring conversation, Gav and Lhuil. But there was no more time to think on it, for they were promptly set upon by a little pile of pigmen, all savage snorts and grunting, and Reynauld’s mind quickly directed itself to the combat.

They made short work of the beasts, even if Gaveston did take on another serving of sickness; those wretched little bile-spewers’ low damage lent Sigman all the time he needed to easily mitigate the leper’s wounds. Which was good, of course, but it meant he had a renewed vigor going forward, which could only spell trouble - trouble, that is, in the form of a headhunting skeleton. The next room was bare but Reynauld remained full of trepidation.

It was only one more room, he told himself, carefully taking a slow breath. One more room and they could leave. And perhaps the thing wouldn’t show - as Sigman had said, there was no guarantee it would.

The next room had a nest of spiders; Sigman and Lhuillier again took advantage of the easy fight. Reynauld got some benefit this time; an earlier hook-wound resealed - Lhuil’s work, not Sigman’s, thankfully; Reynauld was still wary of the occultist’s dark powers. He couldn’t help it - he’d been hardwired to trust the Light and the Light alone. He wouldn’t _refuse_ Sigman’s assistance - he just worried.

“We could leave,” he suggested, knowing already that it was a vain protest. “That’s all the scouting the orders call for.”

“There might be more supplies ahead,” Lhuillier suggested. “We’re in good enough condition.”

“If the Collector is out there, I want it dead,” Gaveston huffed. “I say we proceed.”

Sigman waffled a little but he caved as Reynauld expected: “I suppose, now that we’ve gotten a few solid heals…”

“It's settled, then,” Gaveston announced, taking point and leading on. Reynauld had no choice but to follow, lighting another torch for good measure. It wouldn't do to vy for the reins of a stopped cart. Resolutely, he adjusted his hands on the sword hilt and calmed his breathing.

“It’s here,” Sigman soon enough said in an awestruck gasp, and so it was.

Towering, monstrous; the Collector was as wide as Gaveston and twice as tall - to say nothing of its hover-height and the oversized brank’s-bridle… and surely that was unnecessary; its head wasn’t exceptionally large, and would have easily fit in a standard branks— _enough, Reynauld._ Its hands were empty and fidgeted with its long robe in an upsettingly human gesture. Its skull twitched in the air - was there even a spine to hold it? And that _glow_ \- Reynauld hadn’t thought there could be a light more cursed than fire until the Collector lumined before him.

Its jaw clacked as though it were speaking, and it raised one arm in a blatant summons, as a general directing troops. The heads - the heads were shaken from its coat like stray debris, and before they hit the grime-encrusted floor they were swept up by _something_ of that same pallid shine as the Collector, that unnatural white-blue; if metal were flesh it could not look so wrong. Dangling spines and nerves and vessels swayed as morbid tassels. The heads - one was hooded in the Church garb; two were mundane, unrecognizable. Reynauld looked back to the Vestal head - how cursed, how utterly sick, that he thought of Malleville; how could he put the thought of her _here_ , how could he so tarnish her memory—

“Light,” Lhuillier whispered, muted, hands together, as if there was any prayer that could combat _this_. Reynauld heard nothing further from her, though he knew that she was still beseeching. Gaveston was silent. Sigman was still. And the heads swayed and stared.

The first head, which was half-flayed on one cheek but - the Collector clearly valued its prizes - not at all rotten, bobbed in the air and steadied, manifesting via that unholy glow a human form, which was so detailed as to have clothes and shoes and twin daggers. The torn half of its face even shone with a false new skin. More bemused than disturbed, Reynauld could scarcely manage a gasp before its knife was in him - in him _through_ the armor, because _of course it could go through armor_ —

The next head had a similar ‘body’ and sent its knives into Lhuillier; the Vestal-head made itself some Church-clothes and, to Reynauld’s great shock, it (she?) raised its ghost-mace and the Collector was imbued not with the bluelight but with _Light_.

“How—?”

Lhuillier was busy with her wounds, but Gaveston had seen and appeared equally horrified. “That’s - impossible,” he rasped, momentarily lowering his sword.

“Focus!” Sigman barked, raising his hands for Lhuillier’s benefit. “It’s only an imitation; it reflects what it did in life. Don’t let it overwhelm you!”

Lhuillier helped Reynauld’s injury, then, and Reynauld took a deep breath and with no trouble sent his sword straight into the first head: a vertical cleft about midway down. The thing did not bleed, and its skull was empty. There was something terrible about the ease with which the thing fell, lifeless, upon the floor, like it was another piece of the Warrens’ endless corpse-carpentry. How long had it been in the… _collection_? Would it thank him, if it had known its fate?

He shivered, suddenly cold even in the rot-heat of the dungeon. His fingers tightened on the hilt.

Gaveston crushed the Vestal-skull next, and no one could ignore Lhuillier’s badly-muffled whimper. The remaining head looked on impassively - lifeless, Reynauld thought; it was by no means living. The Collector chattered away.

Two more heads, another Vestal and another indeterminable, joined the ranks. Sigman was mumbling to himself as he sent out a presence - an extension of himself, except it _wasn’t_ \- and the Collector was dragged forward. “Hit it,” Sigman said. “Hit the first head and then focus on the Collector. It has so many heads we cannot possibly go through them all; we must target the one in control.” He sounded strained; Reynauld had a sudden hysterical urge and fought back a panicked laugh. What did it mean if even _Sigman_ was frightened of the Collector’s power?

Lhuillier continued healing Reynauld, who still bled from the first strike, and Gaveston took a wide swing - the Collector sustained a hit, but the first head dodged. Reynauld made short work of the gruesome thing, but, as any good fighter did, he knew that was a hit to the Collector wasted.

He was finding a battle-rhythm now; they all were. Sigman weakened the thing with his incantations, Gaveston and Reynauld struck, Lhuillier patched up what she could. And it wasn’t going terribly - until one of the rogue-heads, the knife-wielders, struck Lhuillier hard in the gut and sent her to her knees.

Gaveston growled low in his throat and took a step forward, bracing himself to take any further hits, and Reynauld slashed from behind him as Lhuillier desperately healed what little she could, somehow pushing past the deadly wound.

“I’m - I’m alright,” she gasped, forcing herself to her feet. Still bleeding, but no longer dying. Gaveston spared her a glance and a nod before he turned and was met by another head’s daggers. He grunted but did not fall.

“Focus on healing Lhuillier,” he said, a sturdy sort of growl, shoulders braced. The Collector raised both hands and moved close to him, and—

That glow, that poisonous luminescence, it—

The Collector put its face so near to Gaveston’s that Reynauld swore its light shone _through_ him—

And it seemed to take him in, or something of him, like it was tapping a tree, its great white sockets beaming into the leper’s mask; it was _eating_ him alive—

“No,” Lhuillier rasped, too terrified to shout.

“No,” Sigman gasped, as if he was _impressed_.

Reynauld could only watch. It was over so soon for what it was; Reynauld had never seen life drain so fast. And _when_ it was over—

Gaveston staggered back two steps, then forward one, back another and then fell, _crumpled_ , not-quite-lifeless.

_Not quite?_

Lhuillier was at his side in a moment, and Reynauld was driving his sword into those yellow robes as deep as he could drive it, and Sigman was lifting his hands—

“No,” Gaveston hissed, lifting one huge hand in Sigman’s direction. “No.”

The occultist dropped his arms even as Lhuillier gripped Gaveston by the shoulders and tried to straighten him. The Collector darted back into the ranks - so graceful for its size, like an angel of death.

“Her,” Gaveston said, angling his head at the Vestal. “Heal… her.”

“No,” she whispered, clutching his scarf even as she stained it with her blood. They were both bleeding, Reynauld realized; bleeding together. Dying together, except only one of them was really dying, and it twisted his gut to think about.

“I’m _stable_ ,” Lhuillier insisted, turning her blood-and-tearstained face to Sigman. “ _Please._ ”

Triage, Reynauld thought dimly. She was right. And evidently Sigman knew it, too, because the wound that started to knit together was not the Vestal’s.

“ _Bastard_ ,” Gaveston choked, forcing himself upright. The wound had barely shallowed; it was still open and bleeding - bleeding worse, even, from the new flesh - he was by no means in the clear, nor was Lhuillier; Reynauld took a step in front in an attempt to draw fire.

The Collector clacked its jaw and lifted its arm, and two more rogue-heads joined the fray, and one of them - _one of them_ —

Reynauld choked on air, on imagined fur and flesh, on nothing, on a memory of a dream. There was no mistaking it. The head - the head belonged to Dismas.

He didn’t _understand._

Gaveston’s hand fell on his shoulder roughly. “It’s - not,” he panted, wheezing. “He’s - back at the - the Hamlet.”

“Oh, _Light_ ,” Lhuillier moaned, sickly, from behind them. Reynauld couldn’t make a sound.

“What _is_ this thing,” Sigman asked no one. “How can - how—?”

But it didn’t matter how, did it? What mattered was that Dismas was - here. He was—

Reynauld was drowning in rats and despair. Gaveston had his shoulder but the rest of him wasn’t anywhere, it was gone, it was dead and buried in rats and heads and whiteness. Someone was talking in his ear but he couldn’t hear it. Something flashed in front of him - the other head, chopped through by Gaveston’s fearsome blade - it hit the ground and rolled like the rest. Reynauld felt like _he_ was rolling - some endless, turbulent sea—

“ _Reynauld_!” Gaveston pulled up his visor and forced his gaze to focus on him, on his cloudy eyes. His mask was off. There was blood on his blistered chin. “ _Stay with me_.”

“Reporting,” he gasped like a fish ashore. It was reflexive, not real, and the leper knew it.

“No, _with_ me,” he growled, one twice-wrapped hand tapping the side of Reynauld’s head. “Listen. We have to kill - we have to kill it. The Collector. We have to—” he faltered and turned and there was more blood now, mouth and chin and chest and—

“It’s so close,” Sigman said. “It’s weak.”

Reynauld didn’t think he could do it but he raised his sword anyway and, sure enough, the next swing was all it took to lay the ungodly mass of flesh and bone to rest. And Gaveston, with the last of his unfathomable reserve of strength, swung at the final head - Dismas’ head—

And it fell back on its glowing heels and dodged the blade. Gaveston lurched, the move having thrown him off-balance, and turned just quickly enough to see the highwayman-head’s dagger as it flashed towards him.

As he fell again, Lhuillier dove for him. Sigman pointed and growled in the Void language, bathing the Dismas-head in a profound darkness. The occultist turned to Reynauld. Lhuillier’s gaze was on him also.

Reynauld turned to the head. His chest was hot but his arms and legs had never felt so cold. Heavy. His head felt swollen as he raised the blade; swollen like a drowned corpse. His frigid fingers locked up on the hilt and his icy feet moved him forward and his bloated head looked the Collector-prize right in its empty, open eyes as he swung the sword across his boiling chest and severed the head from the spine.

And that was it.

The head rolled languidly to his armored feet.

He picked up the head in his hands. The scars matched - it didn’t have a lower jaw but the scars up across its top lip and cheeks _matched_ . He wanted to touch it - wanted to press it to his forehead, wanted to fix its hair and close its eyes and feel the way his brow was crooked from an old fracture, just beside his right eye; the hairline had a little scar crossing it from the same wound. The way he was missing an upper left premolar - and the canine tooth next to it was chipped. And the little dent on the left side of his head, behind the ear, that fit Reynauld’s nose or cheek perfectly, like they slotted together by manufacturer’s intent, were Reynauld to sit behind or beside him— The hook of his nose, the curve of his ear, the slight wave of his hair that you’d never notice unless you were up-close— Light, it was _Dismas_ , he’d just—

“Reynauld.”

He turned, still holding the head. Sigman and Lhuillier were crouched beside Gaveston, who was still prone, and—

“I’m dying,” he stated, and Reynauld couldn’t see his expression because Lhuillier’s robes blocked his view, “and I would appreciate - an audience.”

Reynauld stumbled over on still-frozen feet and collapsed to his knees beside Gaveston. The leper was dying - and not even of his disease. There was something bitter in that; there was something to hate about it.

Gaveston sighed, but it was wet with blood, more of a drowning gurgle. Lhuillier made to prop him up but he waved her off. “You’ll make sure nobody feels any blame,” he asked of his party. “I do not wish to - to leave any… guilt.”

Lhuillier nodded violently, hands in his scarf as before, tears fresh on her face. Sigman and Reynauld nodded more slowly, each in a different kind of shock.

“And Pantoul,” he said, eyes slipping past Lhuillier to the grey-green Warrens ceiling, “tell xem… tell xem not to waste time forgiving me.” A whisper, a breath. He was struggling, not just to speak or breathe, but to think. “Not Dismas,” he murmured, eyes flickering briefly to Reynauld before his gaze drifted again. “I refuse… to believe it.”

Reynauld’s fingers tightened on the head. He nodded weakly.

“Bring me back,” Gaveston begged, so quiet, so calm. His final request. Lhuillier fell onto his chest as the last breath left his bloodied lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here's a deleted scene from last chapter](https://vatteville.tumblr.com/post/173368902048/deleted-scene-bloodletting-ch05-the-library).  
>  dear reynauld im so fucking sorry about this chapter  
> dear any historians/doctors im so fucking sorry for the next few chapters  
> in which i basically put medical history in a blender and chug it...  
> tbf I think I already established the world knows about basic hygiene  
> so... ive already bunged it up something fierce lol


	7. Chapter 7

There was some poignant dissonance in grief, Lhuillier thought, shifting Sigman’s weight on her back, suppressing the urge to gasp as the movement tugged at her stomach wound. The occultist was mumbling dark incantations right in her ear, but she couldn’t complain because he was quite literally the only thing holding up Gaveston’s body - just levitating it, though, and Reynauld was walking doggedly in front, one hand tangled in the leper’s scarf, pulling the corpse along. In the other arm was tucked that _ghastly_ head he’d taken from the Collector - sharing elbow space with Sigman’s odd little skull.

Dissonance. She was walking, and she was lugging Sigman along, but surely - surely, with Gaveston dead, surely she _couldn’t_ \- _How_ could she do all of this? It was hardly her doing it, though; her mind must be elsewhere.

She _wished_ her mind could be elsewhere.

It weighed heavy on her soul that this was the first death among the heiress’ ranks - for her, anyway. Certainly she was aware that there had been another Sister before her, but of course she hadn’t _known_ her.

She’d known Gaveston, though; she’d known and known him. Hadn’t it been just that week he’d come and asked her to fix the bandages on his legs, for his hands were too clumsy to do it himself? Hadn’t it been only a few weeks ago when they’d first prayed together? He’d asked her, hesitant, what the inside of the Abbey looked like - it was too dark within for his eyes to make out.

He looked so - _heavy_ , like this, hovering two feet or so from the ground. His arms and legs were straight - Sigman had taken pains to arrange them, with his dark powers - so he didn’t drag, but all the same he didn’t seem to float so much as _be_ _lifted_. Though, Sigman and Reynauld were surely feeling the worst of the weight. Lhuillier could scarcely bring herself to touch him at all - worried it would send her over the edge. In a way, she was the group’s only direction now; Reynauld had his head down and Sigman’s lolled back as he whispered.

Some of the whispers were his, Lhuillier had realized not long after picking him up; others came from some negative zone behind his head. Or perhaps from hers. Stranger things had happened.

They were long out of the Warrens by now, so the road was visible without any torchlight, but all the same Lhuillier maintained the glow around her belted mace. It was… a symbol, more than anything - though of _what_ , she wasn’t sure. In the moment it seemed like nothing but a beacon of tragedy.

“L-Lhuillier,” Sigman groaned, even as the whispers behind him continued, “I-I’m - I can’t--”

“Reynauld, stop,” she said, and it took him a couple extra steps to drift to an uncertain halt. Lhuillier crouched to let Sigman slide off her back; he slumped in the dirt; she moved forward to take the body under the arms as Sigman let his grip on it break and it dropped to the ground. Lowering the top half to the unpaved road, Lhuillier paused and adjusted its mask - then sat back on her heels, sparing a glance upwards. The sky was bright behind the sparse canopy. It should have been a reassurance; instead, it felt like an insult.

Sigman was muttering again, not in the Void-growl this time. “I’m sorry,” he was saying, over and over like it was all he could speak.

“Shut up,” she told him, not very cruelly but moreso than she’d intended. “There’s no blame.” Looking left, Reynauld was rocking forward a little; he’d sat in the dirt and was holding the new head to his helmet. Disgusting thing. He was nonsensical; she’d have no help there. “You’re _sure_ you’re unhurt,” she asked the occultist.

He paused to look at her sharply. “Sure,” he whispered. (“ _Sure, sure, sure._ ”) “We may have - have - we may--” he closed his eyes and the muttering resumed a moment, then abated. “To leave him,” he finished.

“We won’t,” Lhuillier said, steadfast. “I’ll drag him back myself if I have to.”

“You may,” Sigman said, breathless from exertion, curling further inwards like he was defending himself from something, “have to. I’m - it’s so close - I can’t…” and he went back to his murmurs. Lhuillier would be the first to confess she didn’t know a thing about the Void and its constituents, but she could tell Sigman was spent. Reynauld was past that point; even she was exhausted with grief. _And blood loss_. For a brief, painful moment, the idea crossed her mind to simply stay and rot here on the roadside. She shrugged that one off. Obscene. Blasphemous, even. She would not die here; she would _not_ burn out.

This was not the time for prayer, Lhuillier knew; it was the time for action - but what action could she take? Reynauld and Sigman - she could not impart strength; she could not expunge sadness, fear, nor guilt. She could not, for all her miraculous abilities, bring back the dead.

Her fingers closed around Gaveston’s stiff hand, and, suddenly feeling corpse-heavy herself, she bowed her head - not in prayer - in mourning. 

* * *

 Half-Beast, Pantoul slogged xir way to the door on hands and knees before Judge bounded in front and halted xir path. Its path? _Xe_ certainly hadn’t chosen to run out in the early hours of the morning. “Go on,” xe told the dog, but it turned into Beast-growl halfway through: “ _I run. I run. I run._ ” Pantoul didn’t know why it was so agitated but it kept _yelling_ at xem to _go_.

Judge wouldn’t move, though, not even for the Beast. She whimpered and sniffed at xir face - xir hair - xir horns.

“Judge,” xe moaned, forcing the words out of a mouth that wouldn’t move right, “lemme _through_.” Was xe scared or was that the Beast? Did it even matter at this point? Xir head hurt _so much_. Something was _tearing_ at xem - something was _screaming_ \--

“Judge!” Dufay pulled her away by the collar; when had he come in? Pantoul pushed xir forehead against the ground at the sudden spike of pain through xir eyes. “Pantoul, hey. Hey. Look at me.”

Xe managed it with some difficulty, feeling xir ears pull back - unnatural, unfamiliar - xir feet were scraping the floor of their own accord. “I have to--”

“ _Go. Go. Go_ ,” the Beast cut in. _Shut up!_

“It’s - wants to go--”

“ _GO!_ ” It roared, throwing the both of them forward. Xir arms wouldn’t carry them, though, and they hit the stone as one.

“Shit, Pan--” Dufay lifted xem (it?) up by the shoulders - _how could he touch xem like this; how could xe_ look _at xem_? “Are you alright?”

“No,” xe grunted, struggling half against Dufay and half against the Beast. “Something’s - wrong. Let go,” xe begged; xe didn’t want the Beast to lash out.

But Dufay held fast; he was stronger than he looked, probably used to working with ornery beasts. That comparison struck xem - was that all the Beast was to him? A disobedient dog?

Then again - Pantoul didn’t regard the Beast all too highly xirself…

“What is it,” Dufay spoke intently, briefly holding one of Pantoul’s - the Beast’s? - horns as he crouched in front of them. They hadn’t ever been held there before - Pantoul was unfamiliar with most of the Beast’s perceptions, of course, but even the Beast was taken aback - it was a dull but distinct sensation. It wasn’t the gesture of an animal handler - there was no expectation of deference. It was simply a benign touch, so Dufay could more easily reach eye level with Pantoul, prone as xe was. Something about the interaction was grounding.

“The Beast - it’s pickin’ up on something,” xe said, surprised to find how much more easily the words came. “I don’t - know--”

“Can you ask it?”

“It won’t - I don’t think it’ll _answer_ me,” Pantoul said, despairing. The Beast was still clawing away at xir mental barriers - xe didn’t know how long xe could hold it off--

“Try,” Dufay whispered, staring at xem in earnest.

Pantoul steeled xir resolve. “...Alright,” xe said, pressing xir forehead against the stone floor again for focus. Xe tried to think how best to access its thoughts. It could tell xem to ‘go,’ surely xe could think something at it, also - right? Did it - could it understand words? Or - did xe have to think more esoterically? Damn it; what was _wrong_?

“ _Go,_ ” it was saying - _whining_ ; it was desperate to move. “ _Go - go - go - go--_ ”

“ _Where_ ,” Pantoul hissed under xir breath, “ _where do you need to go_?”

The Beast drew back.

Dufay also drew back, but just as soon returned, wordlessly bracing one hand on xir shoulder. Incensed by the supportive touch, Pantoul tried again: “ _Where do you need to go, Beast_?”

“ _Who - what sound_?” the Beast sounded almost _afraid_. Pantoul would’ve laughed if xir head wasn’t throbbing so badly.

“ _I’m - a friend,_ ” Pantoul said. Xe wasn’t talking out loud anymore, xe realized; somehow xe had moved into thought-speech.

“ _Ally_?”

Ha. Sure, ‘ally.’ “ _Yes. Where are you trying to go_?”

“ _Help,_ ” the Beast said. “ _Need to help_.” Help? - this - this wasn’t the Beast that Pantoul had been expecting. Where was the suspicion, the superiority? Where was the brute force and animalistic urge? Had that just been xem the whole time - had xe just been blaming any negative thoughts on the Beast? What--? “ _Voidman… Help._ ”

That was Sigman, Pantoul somehow knew. There was an emotional association in the nickname the Beast had given him that Pantoul had a very meager access to. “ _What happened_?”

The Beast hemmed and hawed over the question. “ _Don’t know_ ,” it admitted. “ _Help_.”

Dufay shook xem a little, breaking xir focus. “Pantoul? You in there?”

“ _Yes_ ,” xe said, then - “Yes. Sorry. What’s - what happened?” The Beast seemed to back down, oddly. As if it were giving xem room to continue this conversation.

“Started growling,” he said, brow heavy with concern. “Then y’just went silent. Did you - did it work? Did you talk to it?”

“Yeah,” Pantoul said, and was hit by a new rush of surprise and - pride. Xe _had_ talked to it - it had _answered_. They could communicate! “Yeah, I… it says something happened with Sigman. And - I assume, um, the others, too.”

“Shit,” Dufay sighed. “Guess I oughta wake the doc.”

Pantoul nodded. “I think - I think I’m gonna let it - let the Beast go see if it can - help,” xe managed. “I dunno what happened, but - it’s very… adamant.”

“Wait,” Dufay said. “I’ll go with you.”

Touching, but-- “It’s much faster than you are.” Especially if he was still limping.

“The path doesn’t wind; I won’t get lost,” he said, a determined gleam in his eye. “Judge,” releasing her collar, “find Vatteville.” It was clearly a practised command; the dog turned and raced back, tail wagging with purpose. “Let’s go.” He helped Pantoul to xir feet and out the door, and xe finally relaxed xir hold. 

* * *

 Light, but that had been frightening. Seeing Pantoul sprawled and twisted on the floor like that - Dufay had thought that something had gone wrong, that xe would be stuck like that, perhaps-- ‘Course, in a way, he supposed xe _had_ been stuck - just not in the way he’d imagined. Hearing the snapping of bones and sinew as the Beast took hold wasn’t exactly a relief, but at least everything seemed to be functioning as normal.

...Whatever ‘normal’ entailed. Hm. His baseline for ‘normal’ had shifted considerably since coming to Hamlet.

The Beast shook its head, getting its bearings. Outside of battle it looked more out of place, more uncomfortable - hesitant, almost. It sniffed the air, turning briefly to the doorway they’d only just left.

“C’mon,” Dufay said gently. “Y’remember what we were doin’?”

It turned at the first syllable and seemed surprised to see him. It pushed its nose into his chest, then to his legs, snuffling.

“Yeah, I’m still a little off-balance,” he said. “Sigman fixed me up, though.”

The Beast blinked, turning and loping forward a few paces suddenly, nose in the air. It growled something, then looked over at him and cocked its head, squinting. Shuffling back to him on all fours, it tossed its head back over its shoulder - almost as if…

Dufay hesitated. Sure, the Beast was, well, _beastlike_ , but - “Are you - are you offerin’ to give me a - a ride?” The Beast huffed gently and butted its shoulder into his chest. “You don’t think that’s - I dunno - demeanin’?” Shit, it could think - it could _talk_ ; Pantoul had talked to it. Still, he supposed it was similar to being carried - a little awkward, but not _disrespectful_. More disrespectful, he supposed, would be to _refuse_ the offer--

The Beast snorted hard, breaking into his thoughts. “A-alright,” he said, climbing on a little clumsily. It was cold, he realized, while Pantoul ran hot. Perhaps something to do with the change in size? He wrapped his arms loosely around its neck, his knees braced against its sides. “If you’re really sure about this…”

The Beast shook its head proudly - Light, he’d have to watch those horns - and set off, first at a steady lumber but gradually picking up speed until it was bounding over the stream and down the Warrens path. A rough gait, but not impossible to endure. Dufay just kept a good grip and tried not to burden the Beast as it ran. It had a slight goatlike musk, this close, and its mane was coarser than Pantoul’s hair but had the same exact color.

It stopped at one point and adjusted its chains around its neck and shoulders to resemble something of a harness - it struggled by itself, but Dufay caught on and gave it some assistance. He folded its cloak up around its neck as a damper to the metal, to which it gave an appreciative sort of slow-growl. Then he climbed back up, and the run continued.

When the Beast slowed its pace, Dufay knew they were close. They had gone more than halfway up the road - how far had the others come? At least they were on the path, he thought.

He could see them - a ways off, over the Beast’s shoulder, and only at a certain bounce in its stride, but there was no mistaking Lhuillier’s beacon-mace. For the first time Dufay had a sudden jolt of doubt - how would she react to the Beast’s appearance? For that matter, how would Reynauld, or Gaveston?

This was possibly the worst group for the Beast to spring upon, he realized. But it was far too late now.

The Beast slowed further as it neared, eventually to the point where Dufay hopped down himself - he underestimated its speed, though, and stumbled a little as he walked the rest of the distance to the stopped mercenaries. He figured it would be best if they could see him - had any of them even yet seen the Beast? He didn’t trust Lhuillier or Gaveston not to strike even if they _did_ recognize it—

Sigman was crouched at the back; Lhuillier knelt; Reynauld sat dumbly in the dirt - he was holding something, but Dufay was more immediately concerned with the corpse. He knew it was dead, could sense that aspect somehow - he wasn’t unfamiliar with corpses, after all. No wonder they all looked so beaten-down. Why hadn’t they just left him? he thought - but, no, Lhuillier wouldn’t abide it. Of course she wouldn’t.

The Beast stopped a little ways off but Dufay continued, calling out as he did so. Sigman and Lhuillier looked up but Reynauld remained occupied - was he injured?

“Dufay?” Lhuillier asked slowly, rising to her feet. She’d clearly been crying but seemed the most hale of the four - of the _three_. Damn.

“Are you alright?” he asked, shrugging off the morbid shame. “Sigman? Reynauld?”

“We’re alright,” she answered. “You rode here on… on _it_ , did you?”

“Only because it offered,” he said - then realized her comment probably wasn’t aimed at the Beast’s sapience. No time, no time - he moved towards Reynauld, softly calling his name again.

The knight looked over his shoulder; his eyes were dull with some unspeakable agony. Had Gaveston’s death affected him so badly? No - it had to be something else.

“Dufay,” he whispered. “Have you seen. Have you—” Light, but he sounded defeated. “Dismas,” he managed. _What_? “Have you seen him - today. This morning. Any - anytime—?”

“What? I don’t know, I, I don’t suppose I _have_ seen him yet today; we ran straight here—” Reynauld cut him off with a strangled sort of moan-sob-yell; a wordless childish cry. “Reynauld, what—”

And the knight lifted his hands.

“ _Oh, Light_ —” No mistaking that face - Dufay took a step forward, then two back. “ _Reynauld - what—?!_ ”

“I don’t know,” he gasped, dropping his hands to his lap again, mercifully blocking the head from Dufay’s view. “I don’t _know_.”

There were a hundred questions Dufay wanted to ask; a _thousand_ questions - but there was a commotion to his right—

“ _Don’t touch him—!_ ” Lhuillier. Dufay turned in time to see the Vestal’s mace narrowly miss the Beast’s inquisitive nose. He threw himself between them, arms outstretched;

“Wait! Wait, wait, Lhuil, it’s not - it’s only trying to—”

“ _I don’t care_ ,” she hissed, brandishing the weapon. “I _won’t_ let it touch him.” The Beast had withdrawn at the first swing and had its hands raised in front of it, defensive. In some other circumstance the image of such a creature cowering before Lhuillier might have been comical.

“Alright,” Dufay soothed, waving the Beast - and his own frustration - away. “Alright. It won’t touch him. Yeah?” The question was directed at both parties; the Beast huffed and dropped to all fours to back away. Lhuillier lowered her mace hand, but kept her glare firm.

“It won’t touch him. It won’t.” He angled his head towards the Beast. “You won’t touch him, right? Just as she asks.”

The Beast huffed and shook its head slowly, looking not at Lhuillier but at Dufay.

“There. See - it’s listening.”

Lhuillier’s glare swapped between both Dufay and the Beast a moment, then faltered. She sighed, heavy with grief, and knelt back beside the body. “Keep it away from me,” she mumbled.

The Beast had at that exact moment begun to pace towards her again, but ceased at once and turned instead to the occultist. Dufay followed suit, finding that the man had slumped on his back in the dirt - not unconscious, just… resting? He was saying something too quietly for him to hear.

The Beast padded closer, very low to the ground, and sniffed over him, growling a little with concentration. To Dufay’s great surprise, the man growled back just as Pantoul had growled earlier. The houndmaster could only observe, impressed and intimidated, as the two carried out what could only be a conversation - with the occultist seeming to revive as he participated.

The Beast at length gave a short yelp-growl and tossed its head towards Dufay; Sigman looked over as if confused. But the Beast growled again, and wearily the occultist seemed to assent to whatever it had ordered.

“It wants to give you a formal greeting,” Sigman said, rolling his eyes.

Dufay couldn’t help it: he laughed, an awkward bark. “Hullo, Beast,” he said weakly, choking back further chuckles. Wouldn’t do to make fun - he _wasn’t_ making fun, only it was such an odd concept— so  _strange_ \--

The Beast spoke further, with Sigman begrudgingly translating. “It wants to know - It wants to know who the thing it talked to in ‘the aromatic soft-home’ was. I have to assume that’s the doctor’s station.”

“Oh, yeah, um - it an’ Pantoul, they had a, a sort of - like a shared, um, moment - I dunno.”

The Beast huffed in what Dufay assumed to be acceptance of his answer, fumbled though it was. “It also would like to know where ‘the knight’s anomaly’ came from.”

Reynauld sat up and looked back at them (Lhuillier was also watching in suppressed interest, but kept silent). “‘Anomaly’?” Sigman and the Beast fell into further discussion; Reynauld stood and strode over. “What anomaly? The - is it—?” He held the head out, palms over its ears. Light, Dufay thought, never had he been so disturbed by a detached limb - and he wasn’t a stranger to such things.

The Beast growled so long and furiously that Dufay worried it was _angry_ \- but it wasn’t animated speech, only intent. Sigman gave a resigned sigh and began. “I won’t tell you what it _said_ ; I’m going to explain what I think it _meant_. What you have there is an artifact - an artifact, not just an object - of this world. Not of _this_ world, though; what you have is a - hm.” Sigman frowned, brow low in frustration. “The Collector essentially draws its power from concepts; more specifically from the negative of a concept; that is, what the concept _isn’t._ In essence it deals in the opposite of what the very phrase ‘in essence’ entails. What you have here—” gesturing at the grisly thing; “is the opposite _opposite_ essence. Er, that is— You know, um, how a torch or beacon is not, is not necessarily _Light_ , but is a manifestation of Light? Yes? Not necessarily _the_ light, but certainly _a_ light?”

Reynauld nodded, slowly. Dufay admitted he had not the faintest idea what the man was going on about. He’d not been raised religious and, though he’d had basic schooling, it certainly had never delved into… whatever this was. “It’s as we all are,” Reynauld said, a little hoarse but invested already in the discussion, “it carries Light; it bestows Light - it isn’t, though, _Light_ \- Light being nonphysical, existing only as we perceive It, as we manifest It—”

“Certainly, certainly,” Sigman cut him off. “Now can you conceptualize, just for a moment, the notion that, as there is a true Light existing somewhere between the torch and our perception of the torch, there is also a true Dismas?”

Reynauld took a long silent pause. “I don’t follow.”

“That’s because there isn’t,” Sigman said, “not really. But there is something similar - there is a _non_ -Dismas. An antithesis, as it were, to the perceived Dismas. _Because_ Dismas exists, it stands to reason that there would also be the _opposite_ of Dismas - but this is not an opposite as fast and slow are opposites. Not even as light and dark are opposites. You see, as we perceive Dismas, so too do we _not_ -perceive the _not_ -Dismas - this sounds incredible but I assure you such things are entry-level Occult studies. In simple terms, the Collector can draw power from the well of the not _-_ perceived. However, in order to have an impact on a human-physical being such as yourself, it must manifest such power in a way that _can_ be perceived. Thus,” he said, “the heads.”

“I don’t understand,” Reynauld said, now despairing. “Is it Dismas’ head or not? Is he - is he _dead_?” His voice cracked terribly and even Sigman took pause before answering.

“The head is a Void-construct,” he said slowly. “The Collector created it from the not-perception - the Beast calls it an ‘unshadow.’ I believe that Dismas is unharmed in Hamlet—”

“ _Light!_ ” Reynauld cried out, falling to his knees then forward on his hands. “Oh, _Light_.” He pushed his forehead into the dirt, last resolve shattering in his relief. Dufay, suddenly feeling rather ill with relief of his own - and he hadn’t even realized his own fears - went to Reynauld’s side, not knowing how else to support him. The knight gasped as he raised himself only to bury his face in Dufay’s shoulder; his heaving breaths shook him so hard his armor rattled with each dry gasp. Light, Dufay couldn’t even _imagine_. He wrapped one arm around the man’s neck and head, letting his sweat soak into his shirt - just a shirt anyway, and it probably smelled like Beast from the journey.

He had to move, though; they all had to move. Reynauld, aware of this, forced himself to steady against all better judgment and any good doctor’s advice, stifling his sobs. Dufay stood first, then helped the other to his feet after kindly wiping his face with his shirt one last time.

“Right,” Reynauld said, voice thick with withheld tears. “Lhuillier. We need to get the body back to Hamlet.”

The Vestal, who had been silent through the entire lecture, looked up slowly. For the first time since Dufay had arrived at the scene, he thought, she looked truly defeated.

“I don’t know if - if I can - g-get there,” she said dully, still hunched. She had her hands around her middle— “Hh...hurts.” The blood, then, soaking her robes; it wasn’t Gaveston’s at all. They’d perhaps already dallied too long, Dufay realized with a jolt.

“Come on,” he said, hurrying to her side, pulling her up. “We’re not so far.” It was a lie, but a small one.

“Gaveston,” she begged. “We can’t - leave him.”

The Beast ambled forward slowly, head bowed, ears down, haunches low. Meek in any way it could present itself.

“No,” the Vestal moaned, spasming with the pain. “No, you c— you can’t—”

“Lhuillier,” Reynauld implored, but she held fast;

“It _can’t_.”

And the Beast paused, but did not retreat, and raised its hands to its neck, clumsily unfastening its cloak. Eyes still fixed on the ground beneath its feet, the Beast almost reverently presented the cloth to Lhuillier with its smaller hand. You gotta be fucking kidding me, Dufay thought; _nothing_ should be kowtowing to her will and least of all _that_.

She stared, and one hand lifted very slowly, as if it was acting against her, to take the garment. She crouched and spread it on the ground, then moved to drag the body onto it - too heavy; she tried but only ended up falling onto the corpse’s chest, grunting as she landed on her stomach.

“ _Lhuillier_ ,” Reynauld breathed, at her side before Dufay could even blink. He set the head-construct-thing gingerly to one side and pulled the Vestal with great care upright to her knees.

“Please,” she moaned, hands still weakly reaching for the corpse.

Dufay moved as well - reluctantly - and with Reynauld he rolled the body onto Pantoul’s cloak, the action made only slightly easier by the limbs’ growing stiffness.

“It’ll take two to pull him,” Reynauld grunted, one hand at his side as the other helped Lhuillier to stand. “One more to help Lhuillier - only, Sigman is weak and I’m - not entirely undamaged.” He gave Dufay a weary, half-desperate look; “The Beast will have to help with _something._ ”

“If we leave the body--”

“ _No_ ,” Lhuillier choked. Of course not. Not even when her own life was at stake - _worse than the damned doctor._ Dufay nodded, somehow managing to resist the urge to eye-roll. “It can either pull the body or carry Lhuillier - I rode here unassisted but it might be easier if it could carry her _and_ Sigman. Do you think that’s feasible?” he directed this last at the Beast, who nodded emphatically.

“Then there you have it, Lhuil, either you let the Beast bring back the body or you set to riding,” Reynauld said. The Vestal sighed and slumped and shuddered and at length said;

“Then - I’ll ride.”

* * *

 Stringing them up was something of an ordeal - took both Reynauld and Dufay maneuvering the Beast’s chains to hold Sigman up on its back with Lhuillier seated in front of him. The Beast’s back was tough, both with sparse fur and dense scarring. She could feel the uncanny rush of poison in each hard heartbeat, pushed up against it as she was - that pressure was holding her gut closed, she reminded herself, trying not to draw away.

“And you’re _sure_ you can hold her,” Reynauld asked the Occultist. “You won’t pass out.”

“No, no,” he said, breathless but with a confident aspect, “I’ll hold.” They had arranged the chains to bear much of the weight, but it was safest with him gripping the makeshift harness.

“Alright,” Reynauld finally conceded, patting him gently on the back. “Lhuillier - thank you.” For what? For going along with what was honestly their only option? For taking the fastest route back to Hamlet so that she didn’t bleed out on the roadside? For abandoning Gaveston’s body?

Light, her stomach hurt - felt like she’d been cut in half. She was shivering but she supposed it to be shock and blood loss rather than any real chill. The Beast wasn’t particularly warm, but Sigman against her back was, and that was the only relief. She wished she could pass out; _Light_ but she wished she could pass out. Forget any of this ever happened. Forget how her gut was all raw and stinging.

Dufay and Reynauld took their marks at the body, each grasping one corner of fabric to tug it along. The houndmaster had taken the weight of the head, as well as Reynauld’s helmet and gauntlets and Sigman’s quaint little skull, wrapped in the knight’s tabard. “Right,” Dufay said. “You’ll get them to Vatteville, then, won’t you, Beast?” It snorted and huffed and scratched the ground, and then began to run.

Not the smoothest ride, nor the roughest. The worst of it - besides the obvious - was maintaining a grip she could feel confident holding - the chains? The mane? The neck? She finally settled for one hand over the shoulder and the other on the chain, trying to hold herself as close to the Beast as possible - it was crucial to keep her insides _inside_ at this point.

Lhuillier wondered how Vatteville would react to all this. They’d sure get a kick out of her so close to the very thing she’d banished.

If they did, it would be justified, Lhuillier thought. Not that she was reconsidering her position - no, she very much did not want the Beast in the Barracks - but she knew it wasn’t _fair_ ; she knew she wasn’t _only_ banishing the Beast. She didn’t _want_ to cast out Pantoul, but - what else could she do? This, this thing—

This thing which was currently carrying her to safety—

It hit a nasty patch of fallen trees and executed a series of short-leaps that made Lhuillier cry out - and it stopped.

It growled something and Sigman groaned like it had told him to clean his room. “She’s _fine_ ,” he said, “keep going.” But it didn’t; instead it growled back louder.

“You’re _insufferable_ ,” the occultist said, and tapped Lhuillier on the shoulder. “It wants to know if you’re alright.” Somehow she got the impression he was rolling his eyes.

“Ff...fine,” she croaked, and _then_ the Beast huffed and continued. And Lhuillier noted it had slowed - and considerably _smoothed_ \- its pace.

All that for her? For the one who had cast it out?

Would it really have dragged Gaveston’s corpse all the way back to Hamlet if she’d let it? Not even a living person, and an enemy, besides?

She slipped a little further from waking as the journey continued, Sigman having to steady her with one arm. She was drooling blood all over the Beast’s back but she couldn’t help it; could scarcely force herself to keep breathing. Besides, her stomach wound would’ve already soaked it in her blood - surely a little further mess was no bother. If it was willing to carry two adult humans, surely it was willing to get a little bloody because of it.

She’d only ever been carried back to Hamlet once before, when they’d taken on this fish-witch in the Cove - hellishly entrancing, she was; all sorts of unsavory magics… Lhuillier recalled Gaveston being swayed to fight against her - how terrifying that had been, the notion of falling to his blade - the guilt he would have been left with, had he recovered…

It was Gaveston who’d carried her back after Dismas had been similarly overcome and had slashed up the back of her leg something fierce. Realistically she could have walked with some assistance, but the leper had insisted on lifting her. She recalled his stoic countenance - later he confessed that he’d been still half-mad by the siren’s song, and had only kept focus by the weight of her in his arms. She’d cried a little then; he’d been weeping, too. She cried now, remembering it, tears streaming from her eyes and smearing with the blood on the Beast’s knotted back. She was crying from pain, but which pain she wasn’t sure.

All of it, she supposed, her withheld sobs cutting at her stomach like so many more slashes. She was no stranger to death but it never let up, it never got easier - sometimes it was as if each compounded with the last, culminating in whatever this was, now, this overwhelming sorrow—

This _futility_. Lhuillier wept into the Beast’s stiff mane and mourned Gaveston, the Estate, herself, all of it. Light; nothing good could ever come of this. Now Gaveston would haunt her, and the rest of the dead to come would haunt her, too. Forever.

* * *

 Vatteville saw the Beast tearing down the path early and hurried to meet it, Judge at their heels. They were surprised to see it being ridden - was that by choice? - but ultimately that didn’t matter once they saw Lhuillier slumped on its back.

“Sigman, how are you?” they asked as they lifted her down from the Beast’s back. How much attention could they afford Lhuillier before they had to switch focus to the occultist?

“Fine - tired - just tired,” he managed, sliding down on his own. The Beast started talk-growling; Sigman growled back; it shut up. Vatteville was already carrying Lhuillier back to their station. She was conscious, only barely - “Cover the wound,” they ordered, and she managed to lift one hand to her stomach. Vatteville bit their lip under the mask and sped up as much as they could without going off-balance. She probably wouldn’t die - _no one dies in Hamlet_ \- but at this point any missteps could add a day or more to her recovery even with the town’s gift. They’d only gotten a quick glance at her but it was obviously bad, she was covered in blood from the wound down, hands red from holding it; her face was slack and pallid.

Sigman caught up to them as they hurried; the Beast followed behind with Judge. “What happened,” they asked him, not slowing.

“What do you _fucking_ think happened,” he snapped. Defensive. Vatteville hadn’t at all been trying to accuse.

“To her, I mean. How is she wounded?”

“Oh.” Yeah, ‘oh.’ “Unlucky slash wound. It was the - the heads - and - Gaveston’s dead, and—”

_That_ made them falter (as Lhuillier whimpered faintly in their arms; _Light_ ). “ _Dead_?” They didn’t pause long, of course - they did adjust their hold on Lhuillier a little so her head wasn’t quite so unsupported - “Did you - did you kill it at least?”

“It can’t - I’m so— I thought it could be killed, too, but it _can’t_ \- it can only be banished, it’s not _real_ , it’s not—” Light, enough.

“Focus. How tired are you; too much for a quick heal?”

He sighed and they knew the answer before he said it. “I’m sorry—”

“Fine. Doesn’t matter. I assume Reynauld and Dufay are on their way?”

“With the body. Reynauld’s injured but walking.”

“They’re bringing the body?”

“He _asked_ \- he—!”

“Alright! Alright. When we get to the station I want you in a bed and asleep. If I catch you still awake I’ll smother you until you pass out. When you wake I’ll expect you to help with Lhuillier - possibly Reynauld, depending. Yes?”

“Y-yes,” he whispered. Was he crying? Fine if he was but they hoped to fuck he sobered up before he set to healing later. Can’t well heal while you’re crying, that they knew.

Light, but this was a nasty wound. Gut injuries were hell on all accounts. Vatteville knew she was in terrible pain - and would be, likely until tomorrow, until Sigman put his talents to good use.

Vatteville set Lhuillier on the bench first upright, stripping her of her armor and robes. Sigman disappeared into the back and the Beast followed him. Fine; not much it could do like that anyway - Pantoul would’ve been far more helpful but they didn’t exactly _need_ xem, or anyone, to be there.

A well-rested Sigman sure would’ve been a welcome assistant, though.

No matter.

Lhuillier was still technically awake, so Vatteville sighed inwardly and asked her permission to take off her shirt. That’s what the religious types preferred, wasn’t it? Modesty or some such? It was a tiny gesture but Lhuillier’s dull eyes held some modicum of gratitude as she assented. She wasn’t coughing or vomiting blood, at least, but her mouth and chin were soaked with the stuff, so there could be _some_ laceration somewhere--

Vatteville finally lifted her to the desk and unmasked to get a good look at the wound - they recognized the telltale stripey-pink of Light-mended flesh, covering a large portion of the gash.

“Damn you,” they hissed at her. “You’ve likely lost too much blood to risk reopening that. If something’s damaged or misaligned in there - if there’s contaminants in your gut - Light forbid your damn stomach’s torn, you blasted fool.”

“Had to.” The words tore from her ragged throat. “Had to - keep f-fighting.”

“I _know_ ,” Vatteville grumbled back. “Fucking stupid.” They prised open what little flesh they could and Lhuillier moaned at the fresh sting. “If I were to reopen it,” they said, slowly so they could be certain she was listening, “could you keep conscious long enough to reseal it if I looked for further damage?”

She kept her breathing even (if rasping) as she considered the proposition.

“Yes,” she breathed - “so long as you—”

“It’ll be quick,” Vatteville assured her, already pulling vials and needles out of their belt. “Focus on your breaths; if you need something to look at, watch my face and not my hands. If you start to think you’re going to pass out then for the love of the Light _tell me_. Yes? Good.” So saying, they drew their scalpel and strop and began. 

* * *

 

Voidman at least might have answers, the Beast thought as it trailed him into the bedroom. It knew he was supposed to be resting but it _needed to know_ ! “ _What Pantoul? What face-itch? When leave? Why—_ ”

“ _Shut up_!” Voidman roared, and even the Beast drew back with a whimper. But he didn’t smell angry, or, he did, but it wasn’t quite - the way his face was twisted wasn’t right for anger, it was—

“ _Voidman?_ ”

He looked up, startled, from where he’d just sat on one of the beds. “ _Voidman_?” Confusion. “ _Is that what you call me_?”

“ _Smell Void,_ ” the Beast explained sheepishly. “ _Why sad?_ ”

Sigman stared at the Beast for a long moment and the Void swirled behind him like it was trying to comprehend what was happening, then the man burst into tears. That wasn’t - that wasn’t at all what the Beast wanted; panicking, it dropped to the ground and pushed its head into the blankets balled up at Sigman’s side. “ _Not sad! Not - sorry, sorry, sorry— Sorry—_!”

Sigman slid down onto the floor and the Beast, still not knowing exactly the solution (how does one Protect from _this_?), curled itself around him like armor. He was shaking so hard the Beast shook with him, its back bumping against the bedframe behind. It hum-growled low in its throat like it used to do when it was a Nothing - it didn’t have any real _throat_ then, of course, but the sound was the same; a gentle rumbling vibration that was a feeling as much as it was a sound. Not a happy noise, nor sad, but something the Beast used to do when it slept in the forests alone and felt cold or hungry - something to remind it of Home.

This close it was obvious that Sigman wasn’t a Void-construct by any means and the Beast couldn’t help but feel stupid for having hoped. It didn’t mean to feel stupid but sometimes, when the jaw-itch wasn’t around, or when it wasn’t fighting, there just wasn’t anything to distract it from bad feelings. And it didn’t help that Voidman was crying; the Beast always got upset when people cried.

Come to think of it - when was the Beast ever _not_ upset?

Oh, what did that even matter?

The Beast growled in frustration, cutting off its own low purr. Rising, it picked Voidman up and set him in the bed, using its smaller hand to pull up the covers. He curled up on his side, away from the Beast, and if that upset it further then it was as a match to ashes - a wound to a corpse.

“ _Wait_ ,” Voidman said without turning. The Beast paused on its way to the door-flap, but the next words out of his mouth were not what it had been hoping for. “ _You should - should go get Dismas_.”

Dismas… Dismas… Ah! “ _Gunman_?”

“ _Gun…_ ” he sighed. “ _Yes. Reynauld will want to know he’s alright_.”

“ _Fine_ ,” the Beast grunted. A fetch quest. Perfect. Less than Dogman and Dog; that’s all it was to Sigman, wasn’t it? Some broken-Void, feral-flesh thing. It practically barrelled through the doorway. The Doctor was working, so it didn’t bother them - but for a moment it desperately wanted to; just wanted to wreak some sort of havoc - Voidman wanted a beast? It would _give_ him a beast--

The dog padded out from under the Doctor’s desk ( _where Dogman had bled_ , it remembered) and butted its leg, whimpering. The Beast really didn’t want to distract the Doctor - but they didn’t seem at all bothered, so it hunkered down next to Dog and ran its hands down her back, mindful of its claws. She perked up at once, wagging her tail so hard her whole back half wagged with it.

And it was really hard for the Beast to stay mad at that. In fact, Judge’s whole affect was such that the Beast felt its jaw start to itch. It couldn’t help it - no wonder humans liked these creatures so much. The Beast had coexisted with dogs in the past - feral or stray, mostly, not like Judge - and it had always been fond of them. Humans were all about power and display but all it took to gain a dog’s loyalty was a shared scrap of meat.

Oh - Gunman. Right. But it couldn’t _talk_ to Gunman--

But _Pantoul_ could.

It had realized during their conversation that it had seen xem before in dreams. It hadn’t thought much of it at the time - it never thought much of dreams; they were usually scary and uncomfortable and often involved very powerful Enemies with convoluted plots that the Beast couldn’t _hope_ to Protect its Allies from - but now it knew... sort of.

It preferred calling xem ‘Face-Itch,’ simply because it thought such names were funny and easier to remember than random sounds - and this Face-Itch was still a nuisance, even if xe was very closely allied with the Beast.

Which it still didn’t quite understand. It understood that they were combined somehow, but it didn’t know when the merge had happened or why, or even how complete said merge was. After all, it had some of Pantoul’s memories - the last week at the monastery, namely, but also other bits and pieces of a childhood - very little of it good, though, which was why it tried to focus only on present threats…

Did Pantoul have some of the Beast’s memories? It was missing a big chunk between being a Nothing and being the way it was now, Tethered.

Later, though; later. For now the Beast just focused on that tingly feeling in its jaws and tried to talk to it - after leaving the station, of course.

“ _Find Gunman. Dismas_ ,” it told xem, focusing so hard its muzzle was scrunching up. Xe probably didn’t know who ‘Gunman’ was.

“ _What? What happened? Beast?_ ”

“ _Hello Face-Itch_ ,” it said, because it wanted to make fun just a little.

“ _Face-Itch_?!”

The Beast barely kept from laugh-growling aloud. “ _Find Dismas. R… Reynauld. Worry._ ”

“ _Is Reynauld alright_?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake - couldn’t it just get the stupid message across? Of _course_ Reynauld was fine; if he wasn’t then the Beast wouldn’t be letting its control up, now, would it?

“ _I suppose not_ ,” Pantoul said, to the Beast’s great surprise and relief. So it _didn’t_ have to think in spoken words. Quickly it ran through its memories of what had just occurred - Pantoul remaining mercifully silent as it did so.

“ _Alright_ ,” xe said at last. “ _Thank you for telling me? I guess_?”

“ _You’re welcome._ ”

“ _Should I tell you what happens while I’m - while--?_ ”

“ _Don’t know. You decide._ ” The Beast could feel xem taking control and rolled its eyes - impatient, much? Sighing, it growled one last wordless concession as it slipped back into… some-nothing. Not quite Nothing, but certainly far from all the Somethings it had to deal with when it led.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *eats comet shard* Those who read this chapter have trouble remembering when they read it or how late it was uploaded...
> 
> also, turns out it's REALLY difficult to describe the concept of multiple dimensions without using the word "dimensions."  
> also also, the next chapter is like 10000 words, so look forward to that I guess.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad news; this chapter isn't 10000 words. Good news, next chapter is now 7000 words instead of, uh, nonexistent.  
> yeah. this was gonna be the end. but now, it isn't.  
> also, I changed the title, because, uh... reasons.

“I take back what I said about your healing job,” Vatteville said, examining the Light-healed flesh of their patient’s stomach now that the excess fluid had been drained. She’d repaired the organ such that it no longer threatened to leak into the rest of her abdominal cavity. “How localized can you usually direct it?”

Lhuillier hummed in the back of her throat. “When I heal myself it’s - harder to be - accurate.”

“Makes sense.”

“I don’t know—” she paused. “Think I’m going to vomit,” she warned, and Vatteville lifted their hands; she turned her head and let a little trickle of bile out of the side of her mouth. She’d done this several times already, aftereffects of rapid injury/re-healing of the stomach, and Vatteville was just glad it wasn’t coming up red anymore.

They really had to hand it to her; she was more resilient than she let on. Not only was she withstanding the wound but also the pain of loss; nothing short of impressive.

It was also incredibly convenient to be able to discuss procedure with a patient who happened to be a fellow medical professional, all personal feelings aside.

“What I _want_ to do is stitch what I’ve just reopened and leave it for Sigman later,” they said. “Not that your healing ability is any greater or lesser than his, but obviously you’d be seriously hampered.”

“Indeed.”

“But. You’re in no condition to leave for later,” they continued. “Furthermore, Sigman is largely untrained, and I’m not sure he could do much for the finer problems.” Misalignment, namely, and the change in moisture and acidity. Even Vatteville didn’t have any sure-fire measure against those latter two.

“But my - my healing does—”

“Exactly, yes. But if you aren’t confident then I have to veto; I won’t have a botched heal on my hands.” Especially not to the abdomen.

She took a deep breath and Vatteville could practically see her diaphragm moving. “I can do it,” she said. “I’ll - I’ll just do the, the minimum, and you can - stitch the rest.”

“Let me get the iodine.”

“You’ll enjoy that, won’t you,” she hissed as a spasm of pain took her. Vatteville elected to ignore the comment and quietly acknowledged that, based on the show of temper, Lhuillier was in far more pain than even she was letting on.

She locked her fingers around the desk-edges as Vatteville probed around with a soaked bit of cloth. As soon as they withdrew she pushed one hand over the wound, panting - then, face all scrunched with effort, she drew from the Light and the wound was healed. The Light worked more gently - more passively, even - than whatever Sigman’s powers could be called, and such healing seemed less unnatural. When Lhuillier at last let her hand fall to her side, Vatteville was impressed - not only had she healed, presumably, the deeper internal damage, but the peritoneum as well, and a significant portion of skin. Perfect, less work for Vatteville _and_ far less risk of infection.

True, Hamlet wouldn’t let an infection spread, but the condition was still uncomfortable and often extended recovery time up to a week - since Hamlet’s healing factor was, in Vatteville’s experience, somewhat proportionate to the severity of the wound; this was, they assumed, the reason for Lhuillier’s extended period of consciousness in spite of her condition.

Though, they thought, raising an eyebrow as they started the stitching, out of all the Heiress’ hires, Lhuillier was hard-headed enough to-- no, no; none of that. They focused on their work rather than their thoughts.

Lhuillier was still semi-conscious - but slipping, now that the exigency had been eased. She was totally limp in their arms when they moved her into the back; they sat at the end of her bed and towelled off their hands with an antiseptic-soaked rag before reaching for the gauze.

“Is it because of the - other Vestal that you hate me?”

They dropped the bandages; luckily, the bed caught them. “I don’t—” Yes, they did. “I mean. No. It’s not that.” Vatteville tried to busy themself with the dressing but Lhuillier put up one weak hand to block them.

“It is, isn’t it? I suppose— you were c-comparing me—”

“We don’t agree,” Vatteville said plainly; the Vestal shook her head.

“It's true, but - that’s not - not why you hate me.”

Vatteville sighed, wrestling her hand away from the wound. “I’m not going to argue with you. I gave you my answer.”

“There’s no one now,” she said quietly, words a little less clear. “He’s gone and - no one - to align with.”

Shut up, Vatteville thought, but too late: she’d aroused their pity. “I don’t know why I hate you,” they said, cursing themself inwardly for being so honest. “I’ll think about it.” Damn them!

“He said he - he didn’t want Pantoul to waste time f-forgiving him—” a weak little sob, not enough to send her into tears but enough to interrupt her thought and send her into another; “Why did the Beast - carry me back? Vatteville?”

“Hm?” The doctor took her hand after some hesitation. She was very close to sleep now, or unconsciousness; any comfort might do her good.

“Why did it… why would it do that?” she whimpered, and her hand relaxed as she slumped. Thank the Light. Vatteville muffled a groan into their palms, then a curse - because, honestly, damn her for suddenly becoming smart. When the _fuck_ had that happened?

Of course, they could have just used ‘stupidity’ as an excuse to hate her, and in reality the only thing she ever did to incite their anger was remind them of Malleville—

And as soon as the thought hit them, they knew she was right. And - and, really, as soon as they’d agreed to introspect, they had lost.

 _Fuck_.

They couldn’t have pushed their face harder into their hands if they _tried_.

* * *

Pantoul and Dismas were sitting by the little bridge over the stream just outside the town. “It’s not - I’m not _wrong_ for not being upset over this, am I?” Xe had just finished relaying what xe recalled of the Beast’s… description? of the scene. It operated largely on smell and sound, Pantoul found: difficult to translate. Xe thought xe had done alright with it, but…

Regardless, the issue of communication with the Beast was playing second fiddle to xir mixed feelings over Gaveston’s death. Xe really didn’t feel mournful - at all - but there was still a shock about it, a sudden gloom. Perhaps just the reminder of xir own mortality.

“Nah,” Dismas said, though it sounded a little forced. “Didn’ know’m.” He paused and from his expression Pantoul could tell he was carefully considering what to say; “He wasn’ ...nice. To you.”

Pantoul nodded.

“No one ess… eg... _expects_. You - to miss him.” He fidgeted with his bandana like he was embarrassed - as if Pantoul gave a shit about how he talked. Yeah. That’d be fitting, for xem to fucking judge.

It was nearing midday now, or at least near enough to feel not-morning, and though the sky was mostly clear, Hamlet itself was cloud-shrouded. Pantoul didn’t think xe’d seen the town in sunlight yet - perhaps it was eternally overcast.

A thought struck xem - “Did you know him?” And had he _liked_ him?

Dismas shrugged, waving a hand in a ‘sort of’ gesture. “Rey did.” He frowned a little and ducked his head. Anxious - Reynauld—

“I scared you when I went to get you.” It was a statement of fact. _Now_ xe realized why he’d hurried xem out of Hamlet.

Dismas hunched up his shoulders and steadfastly refused to meet xir questioning gaze; xe knew that look. “Maybe,” he whispered. “An’ maybe… when y’said. Gav-v-veston. Maybe—”

“You were relieved.”

Dismas put his face in his hands. “I didn’ - _know_ him—”

“’S fine,” Pantoul said, even though xe was facing the same damn moral quandary and couldn't even reassure xirself. “It’s not as though you’re celebrating his death.”

“You?”

Pantoul stiffened. Was xe?

Dismas suddenly rose and peered into the trees; Pantoul was hit with the oddest feeling of abandonment as he did so. How d’you just up and leave someone with _that_ as your last question to them? Would _anyone_ celebrate Gaveston’s death? Any death? Even if Pantoul wasn’t upset, when was the last time xe’d celebrated _anything_?

Xe wasn’t thinking clearly, xe realized somewhere between self-deprecation and vague questioning. Regardless of the positive/negative, all of this was definitely affecting xem. Best just ignore it - surely it couldn’t last. Like the Beast-headache - which was _already_ back, or had it never even diminished? Leave me _alone_ , xe thought, trying to pull xir cloak around xir shoulders before xe remembered xe wasn’t wearing it - Gaveston was.

Xe followed Dismas down the path a little ways, and as xe did xe heard the step-drag, step-step-drag of the returners. Xir feet quickened - xe wasn’t exactly sure why. Wanted it all to be over with, xe supposed; wanted to go home ( _home_?! Was that _home_ now? When had--) and sleep. Or pass out. Or die ( _we_ can’t _die_ ). Whatever it took.

“ _Dismas_!”

Pantoul realized too late that xe hadn’t moved fast enough; hadn’t gained enough speed to pass Dismas before Reynauld crashed into him with all the force of love; hadn’t managed to keep the two forms merging out of xir line of sight; it nauseated xem. Something about _them_ in the same field of vision as _the corpse_ made xem absolutely _sick_. Xe swore xe hadn’t seen but a moment before running, sprinting, past, but the image of Reynauld’s forehead pressed to Dismas’ was _stuck_ somehow, superimposed over everything else to the point where xe could hardly see the ground beneath xir feet - both Reynauld’s hands at the sides of Dismas’ face; Dismas with his arms at his sides in that freezing shock-worry when you don’t know what, specifically, is wrong--

“Pantoul,” Dufay greeted, snapping xem out of xir thoughts. He turned xem by the arm to face him - to save xem from the scene behind - and kept his hand there. “‘S good to see you again.”

Pantoul grunted and took the corner of cloak Reynauld had dropped without thinking about it. Dufay didn’t hesitate to pull with xem - soon enough they had left Dismas and Reynauld behind to their moment.

“Y’alright?”

Grunt. Step. Drag.

“Pantoul.”

Step. Drag.

Dufay finally put his hand back on xir arm. Xe nearly growled; he withdrew but didn’t keep walking when Pantoul tried to start again. “Pantoul.” Softer this time. Concerned. Made xem feel sicker. “Talk to me.”

No. Absolutely not. Xe didn’t even shake xir head at him; such a gesture would be too close to proper communication.

Dufay huffed. “Fine. I’ll jus’ talk to you, then,” he said, and reached behind - Reynauld’s tabard, xe observed, was slung across his shoulders - and withdrew Dismas’ severed head. At least, xe thought it was Dismas. It had his same hair and - almost certainly, it was, now recalling Reynauld’s behavior, and - come to think of it, the Beast had shown xem something like this, except xe hadn’t known it was Dismas, just an eerie, Voidish head--

“I’m sick a’this thing,” Dufay snarled. Angry; he was _angry_ \- not sad, not upset, not disgruntled, not disgusted-- “I fucking hate it. It’s heavy. It’s ugly. It’s like someone’s playing a nasty fuckin’ joke - Dismas isn’t dead; he isn’t _fucking_ dead. Why is this _here_. Why’s this _in my fucking hands_. Why wouldn’t Reynauld _throw it the fuck away_.” His voice was steely and cold, never once wavering. He spat his words like they tasted foul. “Why wouldn’t Lhuillier just leave the body. Why are we pulling a fucking corpse back to Hamlet. Hm? Why the fuck would anyone _keep - this - shit_!” He nearly threw down the head, but caught himself at the last possible moment in the arc of motion and instead stuffed it back into the improvised bag.

“Dunno,” Pantoul said, emotion pooling out and boiling in xir gut, spurred on by the other’s sudden outburst. “Why do I gotta deal with some asshole stranger dying. Why’d the Beast go an’ carry some other asshole home. Why’s Sigman fawnin’ over me just ‘cause I got a Voidborn freeloader. How come I gotta see folks bein’ in love when I don’t even get a fucking bed.”

Dufay nodded fiercely along. “Fucking right,” he said.

“Fucking right!” Pantoul agreed, losing xir reservations completely. “Why couldn’t Gaveston just’ve been nice to me so I could mourn him?” Too late, xe realized how vulnerable xe had made xirself—

“I’m sorry,” Dufay said, suddenly muted. “...You’re the only one’s never gonna get any closure from this.”

He was right and it wasn’t _fucking fair._ Gaveston was dead and xe would never get the chance to know him, never get to decide on xir own terms whether to forgive him or not. The only thing Gaveston had left xem was an empty bed which he’d originally barred xem from even living beside. “He’s got it easy,” Pantoul snarled, tears in xir eyes - not sure whether they were angry tears, or sad, or just from the effort of holding xirself - not even counting the Beast - inside. “Don’ have to reconcile with anything.”

Dufay put his hand on xir arm, a steadying touch. “Feel however you feel about all of this,” he said. “You don’t need to - y’don’t have to feel bad about - you know? It’s just - it’s just how you feel.”

Xir lower lip was trembling. Pantoul clamped it between xir teeth.

* * *

There was light in his eyes. Reynauld tried to focus on that - not on matching Dismas to the head, anything but that. He tried to focus on the differences.

Dismas, always very adept at reading a scene, led him without a fuss back to Barracks. He kept ahold of his hand the entire way - bless him. Bless him.

He asked of the missing tabard and helmet, but Reynauld wasn’t with it enough to even begin to explain. _It was you - in the rats_ , he thought dimly, and Dismas’ hand cupped his cheek like he knew something had further disturbed him.

Helping off his armor took no longer than usual, but that was only for it having been trained to reflexive motions in his past. Dismas wasn’t so practiced as a squire (he didn’t truly think of him with such a low title), but practiced enough, and it wasn’t too long before Reynauld was down to trou-and-tunic. Dismas fumbled at his belt to get to the gash in his side - Reynauld’s slow fingers were equally clumsy with the garments - it almost felt it took longer to strip the cloth than the metal.

Dismas ran one hand down the half-healed cut, but Reynauld scarcely winced. If anything, the sting cleared his head a little - his breath caught in his throat, and as he pushed past the hiccup he felt the air flow even.

The wound was somewhere between stitch-deep and patch-shallow; Dismas elected the latter method for its speed and within minutes Reynauld was wrapped ‘round the middle with cloth. That done, Dismas lowered him until Reynauld’s head rested in his lap, where he gently drew a leftover scrap of cloth across his forehead.

One thumbnail appraised his patchy stubble: “Need’a cut that,” Dismas murmured, moving the rag down his face, catching the rest of his copious fear-sweat. Reynauld couldn’t answer, but something in the normalcy of the gesture did help, and he signed his thanks.

“Shh.” Dismas coaxed his hand down from his chin. Don’t worry about it; it’s nothing. Tenderly dismissive.

Reynauld tried to lift that same hand to Dismas’ face, but his fingers froze up midair - he _couldn’t_. Dismas tried, too, to lift the hand higher - but, meeting some unbidden resistance, he instead folded his fingers with Reynauld’s, returning them to lie atop the knight’s bare chest.

“I’m sorry—!” Reynauld choked on the words, so badly he had to sit and cough into his drawn-up knees. Dismas pushed up against his back, chin-to-shoulder.

“S’right,” he whispered, arms loose around Reynauld’s waist.

“No,” Reynauld said even quieter. “No.” It wasn’t. Light, it wasn’t. Dismas pushed his nose into the space just below Reynauld’s left ear, slotting them together; the breath over the side of his neck was unbearable in its softness. “You - you don’t know—”

Dismas frowned his concern into the side of Reynauld’s head.

“I’d have to - show you,” Reynauld gasped. “But I - I don’t want you to see. It was - the heads—!” He was caught suddenly in a violent tremor - nauseating in its strength - and Dismas held him down. “You - you—”

“Not now,” Dismas told him. “Not now. Won - _nn_ \- _when-_ \- you have th’ stren-gth.”

“Yes,” Reynauld agreed weakly, worn thin from the shaking and the sobbing and the panic. “I’ll wait - I’ll wait—”

Dismas mumbled something in the affirmative as he pulled Reynauld closer to him. With Reynauld in the front he was blissfully spared the torment of being reminded of that face - he loved that face, but, _but_ \- all he could think of was the Collector’s insidious, bluelit corpse-piece; all that showed in his mind was the ultimate swing of his own blade—

Dismas kept his hands moving, brushing down Reynauld’s shoulders, twining carefully into his hair. It was wonderful - because it proved he was _there_ ; it proved he was _alive_ —

Eventually, he turned in Dismas’ lap and folded him in his arms, able at last to look upon his face without that gut-wrenching horror overtaking him.

“Can you - can you tell me you’re here. Tell me you’re - real,” he begged, curling his fingers into the back of Dismas’ collar. He felt the other’s worn cheek against his own, his lips just brushing Reynauld’s ear. What followed wasn’t the most enunciated of promises - but Reynauld understood it perfectly nonetheless, and sighed in unbridled relief.

* * *

Lhuillier hadn’t been _asleep;_ only passed out for a moment. When she came to, she sneaked to the door flap - Vatteville was gone; likely to wherever the activity was. Unfortunately, that happened to be Lhuillier’s point of interest also, and she expected that they would be difficult once they caught her.

Obviously, the Vestal knew that moving around in her condition was unwise, but she didn’t rightly care at this point; she needed to check the body. Gaveston hadn’t spoken often about events _after_ his death - though she couldn’t deny he’d been dreadfully morbid, to the point of irritation on her part (really, she’d have plenty of time to think about his death _now,_ and quite felt as though that time had been wasted), but he’d divulged enough to where Lhuillier was inclined to monitor the proceedings.

The mask, mostly; he didn’t want to be wearing the mask. He’d said it was up to ‘whosoever’ whether or not to allow a viewing; Lhuillier intended to have it required. He’d never shown his face enough, in her mind.

Vatteville didn’t have to call him a freak, she thought, suddenly and without direct correlation to anything. They could have said ‘outcast.’

Then again, they’d been angry; she couldn’t cast too much blame, not without including some for herself and Gaveston, and he’d been trying to teach her out of blame-rendering. It had been a large part of her former church, and though she’d never particularly enjoyed it, as a habit it was difficult to break.

Never mind; never mind. The morgue wasn’t far and she was already feeling worlds better - it had been a lucky heal, that, and Vatteville’s stitch-job wasn’t shabby, either (they were, she admitted, a skilled physician. For all their other faults.) She managed two steps inside before someone saw her and she froze--

Judge sniffed at her belly and licked her hands. Thank the Light, only the dog; Lhuillier gave a silent prayer of thanks as she continued. The body was in the back with the mortician and, unfortunately, the doctor.

They sighed when they saw her - it was impossible to hide; the way the door was oriented to the room; she didn’t even bother - but didn’t seem any more than disappointed. “At least you’re walking on your own.” It was a statement of acceptance - thank the Light - perhaps they weren’t as cold to her as she’d thought. “Anyway, Gage, we don’t care whether any townsfolk come to the funeral; the mask stays off.” They’d been seated on a countertop; after this address to the mortician they hopped down and handed Lhuillier a scroll. “If you can walk, I assume you can read,” they said, dusting their hands. “I’m sure he would have preferred you oversee the proceedings.”

“Wait,” Lhuillier said, taking their arm on reflex - they pulled away but did not leave. “What - what is--”

“His will,” Vatteville said, gesturing to the first line. “Or, well - it’s not a legally binding document, but we have almost full jurisdiction over its execution regardless - perks of working directly under the heiress.”

“You’ve - you did this for the other Vestal.” She regretted speaking but it was too late now; she winced in preparation for another awkward half-conversation.

Instead, Vatteville regarded her with - sympathy?

“...I did, yes.” They laughed so weakly it might have been nothing more than an arrhythmic breath. “She didn’t have nearly such nice handwriting.”

“Vatteville--”

“I need to check on Sigman,” they dismissed her, brushing past.

“ _Vatteville--!_ ” Lhuillier wasn’t sure whether it was the tone or the way her voice cracked that stopped them. “He said - he said he didn’t want there to be any blame - but I’m sorry.” By the end of it she’d fallen into a whisper.

The doctor worked their jaw like they were trying to keep themself from either crying or stabbing her. “You’ve just lost a friend; you shouldn’t have to apologize to me for anything.” The words came out clipped as they bit down on some deep-roiling emotion. Lhuillier only just caught the glimpse of sorrow in their eyes before they turned away.

Gage adjusted their glasses and coughed like they were trying to clear the air. “Mask off, then,” they said, resigned. “Could I at least make the case for closed-casket--”

Lhuillier shot them a glare and the mortician gave a gentle sigh. “Noted,” they said, returning to the body.

* * *

Pantoul was so _warm_. It was ridiculous - even with several inches of space between them, Dufay could feel xir heat radiating. He supposed it would be oppressive in warmer climes, but in the bland-soft cool of Hamlet it was comfortable - comforting, even.

“Alright,” he said, patting his knees brusquely, tearing his gaze from the mesmerizing waves of the wild grass behind the mortuary, “enough meditation; I want you to talk.”

The figure at his side drew xir knees up to xir chest. “I already talked,” xe grunted.

“Y’know what I mean.”

It was obvious by the way xe hunkered further that xe did indeed.

“I been mistreated before,” xe said slowly, roughly, like xe was trying to make xirself sound tougher, more detached. “Even… _before_ , before. As a kid.”

One long-fingered hand wove through the grass by xir feet, almost as if it was searching for something. Dufay barely kept his own hand from twitching - would xir hand be warm, too? It was such a strange question that he was jarred out of his thoughts, back into a stiff focus.

“And - most of the time - I don’t really get… upset. Over - dunno, over, uh. How folks act towards us.”

“Mm.”

“Because the Beast - it gets mad _for_ me. Yeah?”

Dufay tried to meet xir gaze but Pantoul wasn’t looking at him; xe was focused, frowning, on some-nothing in the middle distance.

“I haven’t been mad for myself in - in - I can’t even remember.” A shake of the head. “But here I am, and I’m - I’m fuckin’ _fuming_ \- ‘cause everything was going so fucking _well_. I mean, I have - I have allies now - _friends_ \- a _home_ \-- Light, do you know how long it’s been since I even fucking considered the _possibility_ of a home?”

Dufay scooted a little closer.

“And - and then the fuckin’ Beast has to go an’ get attached to these _asses_ , to these fucking Light-bleached sycophants, and - and fucking, _carries one home,_ and the other one’s _dead_ \-- So now _it’s_ upset, only - only _I_ gotta be the one upset for it?

“And it’s _fair_ , you know, because, like I said, it’s been - it’s been carrying all _my_ upset for Light shows how long, but-- fuck, Dufay? I don’t - I don’t _want_ to be upset--?” Xe held up tear stained hands; “Look at this! I don’t - I haven’t cried in _years_ ; I _don’t_ cry-- the Beast always takes over before I can cry—!”

“Hang on, hang on…” Dufay dug around for his spare handkerchief and passed it over. “Isn’t this - I know it hurts but don’t you reckon maybe this is _good_?”

Pantoul shook xir head. “No! I don’t know what’s _happening_ to me! I feel like a child, Dufay, and it’s only a matter of time before I start _remembering_ my childhood, too. And I know - I know that don’t _sound_ bad - but— I feel like— feel like I’m only half a person— Like I’ll break into pieces tryn’a remember—”

As xe continued, sobbing too hard to manage anything more than fragments, Dufay retrieved his personal handkerchief and gave that to xem as well. Poor thing, he thought, all that trauma torn up and shared between entities.

Instinctively, he laid his hand on xir back - _Light_ , all those scars--! “No, Pantoul, you won’t break. Come on, now.” Where was Judge when he needed her? - Fuck, he’d left her in the morgue for the sake of privacy - she wouldn’t be out ‘til someone either entered or left.

“An’ I been blamin’ the Beast for all my problems - but turns out it’s just been trying to help everyone? So now I guess all of it is _my_ fault-- an’ I feel like I been _betraying_ it-- And, and - maybe I _was_ mad? Maybe I been mad the whole time? An’ I was just actin’ like - like it was all the Beast-- jus’ blaming my whole life on it--”

“Pantoul,” Dufay cut in; he couldn’t bear it. “If you really think the Beast feels betrayed - well, couldn’t you just ask it?”

Xir shoulders shook. “Too scared,” xe gasped. “Too scared - that the one person - thing - I’m close to - could hate me.”

“It’s not the _only_ thing,” Dufay said before he could stop himself - before he could keep his tone reassuring rather than defensive. But it seemed to hit xem, regardless of biting edge, and xir breathing steadied a little.

Before the chance to correct himself could arise, Vatteville flew out of the morgue with all the fury of a necromancer’s ward, Judge hot on their heels. The dog hurried for Dufay’s hand, but the doctor continued up the way - at least, until the then-arriving Oxenmoor halted them.

Pantoul cocked xir head, though Dufay hadn’t heard either yet speak. Xem leading, the two moved quietly forward to eavesdrop. Judge caught on to the sneaking pace and dropped her haunches accordingly, though her tail wagged like it was a game. Dufay would have to practice that with her later.

“She’s not in your custody,” Oxenmoor was saying. He’d been drinking; Dufay could tell for the way he had his hands loose at his sides. He supposed Vatteville knew this, too; they had a guarded sort of distance between themself and the man.

“No, and what’s your urgency?”

“She’s dismissed. Heiress’ orders. I’m to break the news.” Perhaps that’s why he’s boozed, Dufay thought. He really hated dealing in personal matters so? Hm. Dufay hadn’t figured him the sensitive type.

Vatteville’s back went ramrod-straight. “You can’t be serious.” A dangerous whisper - Oxenmoor had best watch his diction—

“She’s out; she’s gone. What do you want from me? You expect she’ll recover from this?”

“She’s already walking; it isn’t as though—”

“Not the _injury_ ,” Oxenmoor sneered, “like anyone cares what happens to you lot in the _physical_. The fucking _leper._ ” Light, he really must be tossed. Dufay tensed (and Judge with him); Oxenmoor in a foul mood _sober_ was tough enough.

Vatteville took two steps closer and Dufay almost sprang out right there. “You’re _not_ dismissing her.”

“You think it’s my _choice_?” Oxenmoor took two of his own steps. How could such a despairing conversation be so intense? “Where is she.” This time it was a demand.

“Find her yourself,” Vatteville spat, thankfully not drawing any nearer.

Oxenmoor snarled under his breath. “You’re lucky you’re a doctor.”

“You’re lucky you’re a lapdog.”

It was the wrong move and the minute Vatteville said it, they knew it. Dufay leapt onto the path, Judge beside, but it was too little, too late. Oxenmoor’s meaty hand shot out to where Vatteville’s robes bunched around their neck and before anyone else could react the Heiress’ right-hand man had thrown them to the ground - clumsy, and not at all forceful, but enough to be a clear threat.

To Dufay’s right, Pantoul was bolting for Oxenmoor; the houndmaster let xem go as he hurried to Vatteville and propped them up. Naturally, they waved him off - but he saw the way their hand was shaking.

“ _Don’t touch them_!” Pantoul-Beast roared, planted like a barricade between the two. Their head was bowed by those great, ribbed horns; the green veins only just protruding from arms not quite bestial - they were clearly neither one nor the other but both in agreement. Betrayed? Betrayed? If anything, wouldn’t the Beast be _impressed_?

Oxenmoor stumbled back. Pantoul-Beast growled low in their throat; he turned tail and fled. Satisfied, the two fell back to one, the horns and veins shrinking back into the flesh.

“That was… strange,” Pantoul murmured. “Alright, Vat?”

“Sure,” they said. “Fine. Fine. Damn.” One hand shielded their neck where Oxenmoor had grabbed them.

“Sure?”

“‘S my fault,” Vatteville muttered, still gathering themself. “Shouldn’t’ve goaded him.” He’d only grabbed their cloak, so Dufay figured it was moreso the shock of it that had them floored. They took his arm to lever themself upright, but quickly pulled back to a formal distance. “You’re - no, you weren’t out. Never mind.” Dufay let them organize their thoughts a moment.

“So, Lhuillier’s being tossed aside,” Vatteville said, looking up and pushing their hand across their face. “Fuck. I hate her.” Dufay wondered if they meant Lhuillier or the heiress.

“No kidding,” Pantoul grunted, still in a wary crouch facing the way Oxenmoor had gone.

“He’ll be back to apologize sometime this evening, I’m sure.” The doctor was quickly regaining their professional air. “It’s nothing, really, Pantoul. Thank you, though.”

“Nn.”

Vatteville gave xem a kindly curious head-tilt. “Really. You needn’t work yourself - yourselves? - into a frenzy.”

Pantoul turned at length, nodding in acceptance. “He do that often?”

“Oh, never,” Vatteville assured them, starting on the road once more. They were clearly eager to move past the incident. “He’s just pent-up; you know what that’s like.”

That kept Pantoul quiet long enough for Vatteville to retreat on down the path, and xir whispered response was heard only by Dufay: “I suppose you’d know I do.” Somewhere in the accusation was less fury and more of a tight, withdrawn sorrow.

* * *

“What’s that about?” Dufay asked, and Pantoul barely kept from cursing him out. Couldn’t leave well enough alone, that one. Must’ve been some cop.

“‘S nothing,” xe grunted, once again reaching for a cloak that wasn’t there - needed to be washed, the mortician had said. Fuck ‘em. _Fuck_ ‘em. Rot-rolling, corpse-breathing son-of-a--

Judge pushed her head into xir leg and broke that train of thought. “Denial ain’t gonna work now,” Dufay said, and damn him for being right-- “but I don’t mind pretending, if it makes y’feel better.”

“I can’t fucking handle this--”

Dufay’s hand fell on xir arm and it was somehow comforting and irritating at the same time. “How was the Beast?”

“Huh?”

“When y’ran at Ox. It seem upset?”

Had it--? No? Xe didn’t… _think_ so? “Uh. Jus’ worried about th’ doc.”

“With you, I mean; was it mad at you.”

“No, jus’ worried. I-- oh. Right. I get you.” No, the Beast wasn’t upset with xem; xe had that, at least. And, come to think of it, the transformation hadn’t _hurt_ that time. Not that it had been comfortable, but - xe hadn’t _resisted_ ; it had been somehow agreed-upon. Had xe formed a true allyship with the Beast? Was that all it took; one rushed conversation? Why hadn’t xe _tried_ that before--?

But, of course, xe couldn’t have - the circumstances had been too dire. Somehow - on this disturbed Estate, within this Light-forsaken venture schedule - somehow, Pantoul had stumbled on a budding sense of security.

The thought didn’t make xem _feel_ any better.

“Hey, tell y’what, Pan,” Dufay started, and Judge pushed ‘round between xir legs in her rush to get to his hand, “let’s go an’ tell Guinand about all this, yeah? Bet she’s in the tavern again. We could eat, too, if y’like. ...Or drink,” he added. “Do you drink?”

“I haven’t,” xe said idly, still pondering this stupid fucking town and how much xe love-hated all of it.

“What, ever?”

The genuine surprise in his tone caught Pantoul’s attention. “No, uh - no.” The Beast was curious; xe could feel it poking a metaphorical snout in to sniff at the proposition with interest.

Dufay frowned. “I won’t tell you whether to,” he said carefully. “Don’t - I mean, I don’t think alcohol is, y’know, a cure for anything.”

Oh, ha; the caution in his tone was misguided but well-intentioned. And unreasonably endearing. “I don’t necessarily - I mean, I’m not _opposed_. I just _haven’t_.”

“Oh! Right. Well, if you’re interested, uh, you’d be in good company.” He tugged at his beard, a gesture which Pantoul also found quite… cute? Was that the word?

“Sure,” xe said, captivated. Was he suddenly turned awkward because of _xem_?

At least xe wasn’t the only social flop, Pantoul thought, a little self-deprecating but mostly in genuine thanks. Xe appreciated how _visible_ Dufay’s hesitation was. He didn’t have a mask, real or figurative. Pantoul could read him almost without trying. It was comfortable - _comfortable._ Xe laughed a little to xirself as xe followed Dufay to the tavern; xe was becoming _comfortable_ with him.

It was terrifying. Pantoul felt xirself give a full-body shudder at the mere notion. _Comfortable_?

Was xe even _allowed_ to feel _comfortable?_

* * *

This wasn’t the deal; this wasn’t the _deal._ But the Presence wasn’t answering. Sigman could beat at the inside of his own head all he wanted but nothing could force the Presence to commiserate.

Filthy, cursed thing. He did _somewhat_ regret the bargain. He regretted, at least, having to succumb to any outside force’s whim.

“I was supposed to be indomitable,” he whispered to himself, fisting a hand in his hair as he curled up in the bed. “ _Liar_.”

The Presence finally wafted in like a noncommittal fog. “ _You gentle soul,_ ” it mocked him, “ _are you hurt? Are you dead?_ ”

“ _No, but—_ ”

“ _Then have I lied?_ ” Below its sweet mimicry was a genuine offended edge. He’d have to be more careful.

“ _No_ ,” he acquiesced, though he could curse the thing a thousand times within his mind. “ _But—_ ”

“ _Be silent. The tether works both ways. I would sooner be born into existence than continue to sit privy to your pity. Weakling._ ”

“ _Of course_ ,” Sigman growled, and he was sure that, had the Presence been able, it would have laughed.

“ _The little bird comes_ ,” it hissed. “ _Don’t hold them in conversation too long. I’m not the only one bored by your ceaseless prattling._ ” (Weak-fast-human-conversation; he had to give the Presence credit for such a thorough insult.)

“ _Vatteville isn’t bored by it - by_ me _,_ ” he snapped, the confidence far stronger in his voice than his convictions. Surely not. They’d had two long conversations now; Vatteville would have stopped him if—

“ _Shut up_ ,” the Presence snapped, then dissolved away as the doctor’s footsteps became audible.

“Sigman - are you awake? Already? Did you rest at all? - never mind; as if I’ve any place to judge; I’m glad you’re up.” Vatteville blew in like a storm, rushed in speech and affect. “Was Reynauld injured?”

“...Some,” Sigman managed, finding his speech stifled by uncertainty. Damn the Presence, and damn him for listening to it. “In the side. Healed, though, mostly.”

“Hm. Dismas should be fine with him, then…”

“Did you see the head?”

Vatteville paused. “The what?”

Fuck. He’d thought - surely, Dufay - he would’ve - but— “It was - it - nothing.” _Shut up_.

Vatteville didn’t just pause at that - they stopped. “Go on,” they said, tugging back their hood. They sat next to him on the bed and Sigman really almost could’ve exploded. Something suspicious had been coaxed into being by the Presence’s words - something paranoid and bitter. Vatteville wouldn’t ask if they weren’t interested - surely - would they?

“It was - it was—” His throat hurt from talking null-language before. “I - I can’t. I can’t - it’s not - it’s—” He’d never been so speechless.

Vatteville considered his hesitation with something that probably wasn’t pity but which Sigman couldn’t help but interpret as such. “I’ll learn it soon enough, I’m sure,” they told him. “Doesn’t have to come from you.”

“Right,” he whispered, pushing his hands to his forehead. Why did it hurt so much to talk?

“The Heiress wants to send off Lhuillier,” Vatteville said, then, quickly: “You don’t have to respond; I’m only informing you.”

“What did she do?” he managed. The change of topic helped, as did the fact that Vatteville was - for some unfathomable reason - still speaking to him.

A bitter smirk crossed the doctor’s lips. “Nothing, save to watch her best friend die. There’s little tolerance here for slips in performance - she’s a risk, now, in the Heiress’ eyes.”

“...because she might - might be - have a, a bad reaction.”

“Oh, indeed,” Vatteville sneered, reclining like the entire affair had exhausted them. “Best off not forming attachments, eh, friend?”

Was that a joke? Which _part_ of it was a joke?

Vatteville regarded him a moment, then blinked slowly up at the ceiling. “How are you doing?”

Fine, he wanted to say - he wanted to lie - but his mouth couldn’t even shape the truth.

“I’m sorry about Gaveston. No one should have to go through that on their first venture.” They sat up. “My, uh - I had - that is—” A tiny shake of the head. “For me it wasn’t until my second, but - I know what it’s like.”

Oh.

Sigman hunched his shoulders a little. He wanted to ask - but, if Vatteville was only doing this to be nice, he’d rather not subject himself to a pitious lecture. He hadn’t known anyone had died before. How long had Vatteville been at this - this bastardized odyssey?

“She was, um, the Vestal before Lhuillier,” they said. “It was her and my second venture, and Dismas and Reynauld’s third. The third, really, the third venture in the whole - in the entire— You know.” A gesture with their hands, emphasizing. The third venture, ever. “I’d say it’s nearing three months now, since, but I - I don’t keep track of the time. It makes it all seem more - impermanent.” They dropped their voice to a whisper. “I know it feels like you’ve failed.”

It did. The feeling was so strong it was as a physical weight in his chest.

“I can’t - I don’t know what to tell you—” Vatteville’s hands fidgeted in their lap. “I don’t think it ever goes away,” they said. “I don’t think it’ll feel any better - but - I know what it’s like.”

“And—” somehow he had found his voice, “they think it’s _Lhuillier_ , who’ll react poorly?” He had to hold a hand to his face, but even that couldn’t stop his tears.

Vatteville shrugged. “I didn’t do very well after Malleville died; it’s a fair assumption. But everyone reacts differently.”

“You? Is a doctor not—” he cut himself off just barely too late and dipped his head in shame, face burning. Vatteville just chuckled.

“Used to death? Not even close.” They patted him gently on the back. “But ‘tis true I’m used to responsibility. Do try to remember that a life is rarely held by a single set of hands. You’re not a killer, Sigman.”

They didn’t know - the Descent—!

“How fares the… the Presence?”

Sigman shook his head. “Demanding as ever.”

Vatteville frowned. “Is it a threat to Pantoul, still?”

He wasn’t sure, and didn’t wish to bother it any further, so he merely shrugged.

“Alright. Would you tell me if it - if there’s anything…” fumbling at the air like they could somehow catch the right phrase with their fingers; “If there’s any danger,” they decided, “would you let me know?”

“Yes,” Sigman said, and even without swearing or specifying he knew he was making a false promise. There was already danger.

Vatteville stood to leave, and as they went the Presence flitted back in, a jovial little bat, chittering away at his dishonesty. “ _Always undecided, shallow vessel, are you not? How easy it could be for you to forget that you are human._ ”

“ _Accost me not_ ,” Sigman groaned. “ _You’ll not lure me to the depths._ ”

“ _Well enough, well enough. But it’s no further down than up for you, you know._ ”

He did.

“ _Then tell me, flesh-heap… do you want to know the story of the Heads?_ ”

“ _Accost me not!_ ” But it was no use; the Presence could see as deeply or shallowly into him as it pleased. “ _Don’t test me!_ ”

“ _That_ was _the test..._ friend,” it said, and it was as if the blood in Sigman’s veins had turned to ice. “ _But do tell the bird that I have no interest in the flesh-Beast… it is, I fear, beneath me. Beneath both of us, in fact_.” It thrummed in the air and the feeling was akin to being twisted inside-out; if he hadn’t been seated he would have undoubtedly collapsed.

“ _What more do you want from me_?” he whimpered. He couldn’t keep his voice from wavering so.

The Presence intensified; grew closer without ever lowering itself to something as weak as the concept of _motion_. “ _The same as I ever did want,_ ” it _sang_ , “ _a vessel. O, but to be so easily consumed as flesh._ ” Its words grew more esoteric even as Sigman lost the focus to properly translate; “ _Doors and caves and wounds, my vessel. Keys and picks and edges. You rest; rest; rest. I’ll walk you in; you know the way._ ”

He did know the way, though he hardly knew to where, nor how he knew, nor how he _could_ know. His hands hurt; his head hurt. His veins felt… heavy.

“ _Rest; rest; rest,_ ” the Presence rumbled; “ _You and all your fellows. You will see so far, so far…_ ”

So far… Something deep within and deep without began to shift, and Sigman was powerless to stop his eyes from staring. It’s too early, he thought. He didn’t have any idea what the notion meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> final chapter is already waiting in the wings... i'm excited.  
> also, series title pending! the next series installment will be shorter, but sweeter. mostly.  
> have a good week!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which the work's title change makes total sense

“No.”

“I brought - I brought it back, you can see—”

“ _No!_ ” Dismas held up his hands. “I don’t - this - don’t - _don’t._ ” Reynauld allowed him a long pause; “R-Rey. How. How.”

All he could do was shrug helplessly. “I don’t _know_. But - it was you. The Collector has your head - and now _we_ have it.”

Dismas huffed and paced and stuttered around the Barracks - Reynauld had suggested they leave sooner but Dismas demanded an explanation; things had taken a turn; now, here they were, still. “Not _unholy?_ Not - not - _dem-m-monic_? Rr— w— _why_?” He was glaring - he was _angry_.

Reynauld nearly choked but he forced the words to come. “Because it was _you_ , Dismas; because it was _you_ and I couldn’t - I couldn’t _leave you_ —!” It was that glare that sent him over the edge into tears. Hadn’t he sliced that ghost-head from its spine? Hadn’t he - hadn’t Reynauld _killed_ him? “Dismas, _please_ —!”

“Stop— Stop. Stop. I can’t - can’t - c—” Another heady pause; “I don’t - want to ss— see it.”

“Dismas, please; Dismas, I have to know you’re real; I have to see you and the head— have to know— Dismas, _the rats_ —!” And suddenly he was on his knees and he didn’t know why or to what force - his lover? the Light? the Void?

( _bluelight--!_ )

Dismas wheeled around again, still that feverish pacing. “ _I’m real_ ,” he hissed, but it wasn’t enough; how could it be?

Why _hadn’t_ he discarded the bloody thing? Why had he held onto such a despicable artifact?

_The rats_. He had to pull the body from the rats.

“Dismas,” he tried again, still kneeling, “Dismas. I can’t - I can’t - I don’t know— I’m _sorry_.” Dismas knelt before him and Reynauld buried his face in his jacket so hard it was like to bruise his nose.

“...Don’ make me t-touch it.”

Oh, _Light_. _Light._ “Yes,” Reynauld gasped, “no, of course, of course not; thank you—”

“Breathe,” Dismas reminded him, pulling him to unsteady feet.

* * *

Dufay wished they could’ve stayed talking as a twosome a little longer, but Pantoul eventually fell below some hidden social energy threshold and tiredly suggested he fill Guinand in on what all had happened. As he did so, Pantoul leaned xir head against the tavern wall and looked on, remembering to push the glass of mead xe was nursing to xir lips every so often.

It hadn’t taken long to find a beverage Pantoul enjoyed - not with Dufay’s lucky guess, anyway. This was xir second glass; Dufay wasn’t at all surprised to see xem eager to figure out what ‘drunk’ felt like. Perhaps a more worrisome sort would be anxious about the Beast’s reaction to alcohol, but Dufay didn’t have any more or less trust for one than the other, nor any more or less trust for either drunk versus sober. If something happened, it happened, and that, he supposed, was that. ...His two glasses of stout were probably easing his mind, too.

He figured he deserved to try and fog up everything that had happened that day. He hoped he could sober up in time for the funeral - at least enough to get drunk again afterwards. He wasn’t usually one for heavy drinking - but Light, if that Dismas-head-thing hadn’t fucked with him but good. And dragging that body so long a ways - and Pantoul being in such a state over xir developing alliance (?) with the Beast—

The dog-fearing regular was out, so Judge was sitting next to Pantoul, panting happily over the table and occasionally flecking drool onto its scarred surface. Dufay didn’t suppose this to be any worse or better than a passed-out-drunk human slobbering onto the bar, so he saw no reason to fret.

“I did remember the Collector,” Guinand said slowly, almost languidly - the sort of tone she used when she was still stuck in deep thought. “Sometime last night - not like a sudden awakening - more as if it just… slipped back in. I couldn’t remember it, and then I thought about it a little moment and I realized; yes, I _could_.”

Dufay nodded a little to encourage her to continue. Guinand didn’t much like talking about her own thoughts (except in song), so he opted to be supportive on the rare occasions when she opened up.

“When’s the funeral?” Ah, no; she’d opted to clam up. Oh, well.

“Tomorrow, likely,” Dufay told her. Gage preferred quick proceedings and it would never be long enough to encroach on the following venture, anyway. Malleville’s funeral had been the day of.

Light, he hadn’t thought about that in ages. He’d met Malleville only in passing - ‘I look forward to working with you,’ (or some variant) were her first and last words to him.

Oh. _In passing_. Ugh.

“Are you going to attend, Pan?”

Dufay couldn’t help but shoot her a look - as if xe hadn’t been tormented by Gaveston’s death enough - but xe didn’t seem too troubled. “I best,” xe mumbled, still slumped against the wall. “Just for to be polite.”

“No one would hold it against you if you didn’t,” Guinand told xem. Dufay nodded his agreement.

“Yeah. Still. Lhuillier’s _this_ close t’pologizing.”

“You think?” This time Dufay spoke up in surprise. Lhuillier? Admit folly? In one million years, perhaps.

Pantoul nodded blearily - Dufay didn’t think xe was drunk, exactly, but hovering somewhere at the peak of exhaustion, horror, and tipsiness. “Oh yeah,” xe assured the table. “She’s close. Th’ Beast says she’s feeling… guilty.”

“Don’t know who wouldn’t be,” Guinand said darkly. “That other one, the one who fixed your legs up, Dufay - Sigman. How’s he doing.”

Pantoul laughed. “Guilty, guilty, guilty,” xe said. “Everyone’s feeling guilty. Vatteville. Oxenmoor. You. You. Me. Beast. Only one’s innocent’s the fucking dog.” Gesturing blithely at Judge’s accepting canine grin.

“Should we cut xem off,” Guinand murmured, but Dufay was sure it had only been a couple of drinks, so he just shrugged. “What’m I guilty for, then,” she asked, tone equal parts challenge and apprehension.

Pantoul raised xir eyes to her - fuck; not xir eyes, the Beast’s eyes. But the voice was xirs for certain, shaky but coarse: “Just for being here,” xe said softly, a little tremor starting in xir jaw.

Guinand didn’t falter. “So I am,” she said. “So I am. Could’ve had us another fighter or doctor, but someone wanted to hire a fool. Should never have taken this job.”

“You could leave,” Pantoul-Beast said, this time with a growly echo behind the words.

“No,” Guinand said, tone still inscrutably light. “No, I cannot. The only way I’ll leave this place is without my body.”

Dufay couldn’t suss out how she was so certain, but something in her face suggested loudly he not pry. “Alright, Pantoul, enough,” he said. “Enough. I think—”

“You’re the guiltiest,” they growl-spoke, and Dufay instantly went rigid. “Not even the doctor can come close. What did you _do_? Why can’t we _protect_ you from it?”

Why can’t - _what_?

Guinand muffled a broken giggle into her sleeve, but Dufay wasn’t a nervous-laughing type. “The fuck are you on about,” he said, low in his throat; the tone was enough to even quiet the jester.

“It’s the only thing I’m good at,” Pantoul-Beast said. “Protecting. Just look - Gaveston wouldn’t let us go with him and he _died_.” They couldn’t decide who was directly addressing him; that much was obvious, but Dufay was still caught up in paranoia-focus - things like motive and honesty and hidden meaning - not at all caring about personal pronoun use. “Xe wants to help. I like the dog. We’re trying to cooperate so that we can stay here. Xe’s working on that riddle.”

The last sentence snapped Dufay out of it. “Xe _is_ ?” It was so stupid and insignificant ( _except it wasn’t_ ) that he suddenly couldn’t redirect his attention to anything else; it was just so _weird_.

Pantoul-Beast tilted their head at him sweetly. “Of course,” they purred. “Home isn’t a place, you know. Too solid.” They snapped their teeth, then, and in a second they had simmered down from two to one, and Pantoul thunked xir head against the wall.

“Sorry,” xe mumbled, sounding so upset it made Dufay’s chest ache. “I didn’t - I think it’s harder to hold it down, with the - the—” Xe looked morosely at the mead. “I guess this won’t be a regular pastime.” The look of regret on xir face was awful.

Guinand rose from the table and left without a word as Dufay’s hand shot out of its own accord to cover Pantoul’s. “It’s alright,” he said slowly, still caught up in mood whiplash. “I think it was something you needed to say.”

“Maybe,” Pantoul whispered, “but it’s not anything I _wanted_ to.”

Xir hand _was_ warm. In that moment, Dufay wished more than anything that he and Judge had taken each other’s seats.

* * *

So, maybe, perhaps, it was possible, or, _likely_ , even, that funeral management wasn’t treating Lhuillier as well as she might’ve hoped. As it turned out, the process involved a lot of reminders that her best friend was dead (which… ‘best friend’ was a weird phrase, and not one she would ever say aloud, but he was dead so it wasn’t as though there was anyone to complain). Actually, the process was more like one giant reminder of the fact. And that was just… crushing.

It wasn’t Gage’s fault; they were very professional about it, seeing as it was their job and all - it wasn’t anyone’s fault, really, she reminded herself; well, if she had to blame someone, it would be the Collector itself; she didn’t see the harm in assigning blame to an eldritch skull-monster. She was still mad at Gage just for being there, but she was also mad at herself for being there, and in some weird, guilty way she was mad, too, at Gaveston himself, for dying.

Right now, though, she was mad at the Church, because unfortunately as a Vestal she was forbidden from getting drunk. Oh, she could drink - but not to excess. Which was a damn shame, she reckoned, and a cruel temptation.

(That was the point. But it didn’t make her feel any better to know the Church’s intentions.)

“I’m sorry about the headstone,” Gage said, breaking into her thoughts. They were seated in the waiting area with Gaveston’s not-Will and a list of funereal parameters provided by the Heiress. Comparing.

“Gage. Please stop apologizing.” Oh, right: Vatteville had come back to help. Or to make her feel bad. Or maybe both. Lhuillier wouldn’t put it past them.

Regardless, she had been getting sick of ‘sorry.’ So she supposed the doctor could stay.

“Right,” Gage said. “Anyway, the Heiress’ budget is very strict. I’m afraid that, with only a few months’ working for her, we simply cannot provide more than the basic stone for the deceased.”

“You can say his name,” Lhuillier muttered.

“For Gaveston, then,” Gage corrected.

“And we don’t care about the headstone,” she said. “Just as long as he’s comfortable.”

Gage sighed a little and Lhuillier could _hear_ them mocking her in their head. ‘He’s dead; he doesn’t need to be comfortable.’ Shut up. She knew that.

Vatteville studied the lists. “Right. Um… Lhuillier, I know Gaveston was very devout, but, he didn’t have a formal position within the Church, did he?”

“No,” Lhuillier confirmed, wary. What did— oh. She followed their gaze to the paper. “‘Limit to full religious services, if so desired, lest deceased be formally ranked within the Church, in which case Church rule per deceased’s rank applies. Church as well as foreign or minor denominations’ services’ commission permitted, but funds must be drawn from living mercenaries’ own designated pay.’ ...We have to pay out-of-pocket for someone to do the readings.”

“Obviously this didn’t apply last time,” Vatteville mumbled. “I had forgotten. Seems stingy on the Heiress’ part; it’s not as though she’s at all lacking.”

“That doesn’t help,” Lhuillier sighed, adding another name to her no-blame list. “Is there any rule that says _I_ couldn’t do the readings?”

Vatteville frowned like she’d just handed them a suicide note. “You could,” they said carefully, “but - and this isn’t an insult - would that not be… strenuous on you?”

“Not as strenuous as what has already happened,” Lhuillier gritted. What, like she couldn’t handle something as simple as reading off a page? Was her grief really so poignant?

“Wouldn’t you rather attend as a guest,” Vatteville said quietly, folding their fingers together and glancing aside. They met her gaze for only a moment before flicking their eyes back down. They really weren’t judging her - they were speaking, somehow, from experience. This honesty shook her and she paused to really consider: could she manage her best friend’s funeral? Could she _really_?

And the truth was, when she looked at Vatteville and saw a very real, sad terror, she knew that she couldn’t. She knew it would kill her.

Gage, who had been leaning back to let the discussion carry on without them, sat back up and cleared their throat suddenly:

“There is another option.”

Lhuillier thought about this for only a moment. “...What is it?” It wasn’t that she didn’t _want_ to service her friend’s funeral - except, yes, that was precisely it.

The mortician looked even more troubled than the doctor. “I had a lot of questions when Oxenmoor first handed me this doctrine. Mostly semantics - he hadn’t ever been involved in funeral planning and preparation; that much was obvious. This is a condensed final draft of what was originally a much longer, more disjointed correspondence - and one that, initially, contained far more financial protocol than simply the funereal.”

“Gage,” Lhuillier whispered, hoping she sounded intent and not irritated, “get to the point.”

“...Yes. Ah, so, a lot of what I initially scrapped from this master brief, as it were, happened to involve hypotheticals. Because, you see, I imagined that such things could be solved on a case-by-case basis. So, ah, there does exist a, well; not a loophole, per se; but there is a way to work around this issue of finance. And that would be… if you relinquish your position.”

_What_? “If I _what_?” Vatteville sucked in a shocked breath but Lhuillier was quite preoccupied by her own surprise. Quit? She hadn’t known she’d even _had_ that power. “You can’t be serious.”

“‘If the applicant leaves the Heiress’ services of their own will and following an event of reasonable upset, this document hereby delegates a portion equal to one-sixth their entire commission as detailed by section—’ you get the idea. You could use some of that money to cover the cost of a preacher’s services.” They nodded shortly, shook their head wearily, and then nodded again. “That’s - that’s what I’ve found. I doubt Oxenmoor would let me look at those forms again; he was very pressed when I let slip that I had legal experience; however, if you want me to ask I will do anything I can—”

“Thank you, Gage.” Lhuillier felt like she was stuck halfway between life and death. “I need to think about this.”

“I would advise one of you, or any of you, I suppose, to ask Oxenmoor for a look at those details. I may be omitting something because I don’t find it immediately relevant - but I don’t know what’s more relevant to you.”

“Thank you.” Barely a whisper. Vatteville stood up and said something but Lhuillier didn’t hear it. How was she - what could—? She could officiate the funeral herself and put herself in the ground the next day, or she could pay someone else to do it and never return to Hamlet again. There was nothing. There was nothing. Vatteville was leading her out by the arm and she was as empty as the corpse she’d just left.

“I didn’t want to tell you this so soon,” Vatteville began, once they had led her back to their station, “but Oxenmoor’s going to strip you of your position, anyway, so if you quit…” they gave a helpless toss of their hands. “Well. You see what I mean.”

Oh.

“That’s why you came back.”

They shrugged. “That, and I thought about how hard it was to oversee the proceedings alone last time - and I had the experience - I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“...No,” Lhuillier admitted. “But nothing seems to matter right now, so I wouldn’t claim to be a fair judge.”

“Understandable.” Vatteville paused in the second doorway. “Sigman’s left already?” It was muttered to themself, but Lhuil couldn’t help but hear. She poked her nose in, taken by the idea of any distraction from her own feelings, which had only started storming harder at the news of her dismissal.

Vatteville ducked into the back room and Lhuillier had to admit that she preferred even Vatteville’s company to none. “I was _just_ talking to him,” they continued under their breath. “Where…?”

As she hurried after them, Lhuillier caught a glimpse of something resting near the foot of the empty, tousled bed. “Vatteville. I think something might be… wrong.”

They trotted over and followed her gaze to the wax-covered skull on their station floor. “For once,” they said, “I have to agree with you.”

* * *

_‘Oxenmoor,_

_Set to depart NW at time of this letter’s delivery. Minor delay as horses taken to jumping fence. Sent my best men on it. It’s strange up here of late. Winds blow straight through a body. Also note swampland to drain south instead of north. Capper says there’s no way through or around to the north side, not without disturbing… the land. Don’t worry— the water’s the only thing about the place that_ isn’t _poison. Tell Firvet to cut their hair._

_Morrigan.’_

Oxenmoor knew something had shifted, first when he lost contact with the excavators, then when he began forgetting about them entirely. He’d re-stumbled upon the weeks-old letter not three hours after the Warrens team had left Hamlet grounds. Was it related? he’d had to wonder. Surely not. Surely, the Collector was a resultant phenomenon to the Ancestor's doings. Surely, it was nothing but an excess of Void, materialized.

The letter. He had to remember the letter. He’d tacked it up in his room next to the horses-and-birds painting, just so he might see it and be reminded, but he found that very quickly his attention started to wane. To drift, like his mind didn’t want him to look. Didn’t want him to hold the memory.

Oxenmoor didn’t _know_ Morrigan the farmer, but they’d been in correspondence almost since the Heiress had travelled here, and he didn’t want anything to happen to him. He’d no idea where he was going to find another team of laborers on such short notice.

That was what had started him drinking, that letter, and the ensuing return of the Warrens party (minus one) had kept him going. Damn Morrigan; damn Gaveston. Damn _Vatteville_. Insipid little wench.

No; he didn’t really think that. That was the frustration talking. _Shut up_ , Oxenmoor; stop being so damn _cruel_.

He was sitting on the mortuary steps like a bloody lost relative or some such, hands in his lap and head hanging. It was a guilty sort of slump, a self-hating loll. He didn’t _deserve_ to grieve. Whom had he known that had died? Hm? Not the farmer, and _certainly_ not the leper. Yet, here he was.

He saw someone skittering between the buildings and cocked his head back for a better look. Lithe form, but stilted, like their limbs were being puppeted. And— hang on, that wasn’t—?

It was. He’d had to haul ass to get close, but Oxenmoor caught up to Sigman, blocked his path, and asked in plain, curt terms where he was headed. And _what_ was the _matter_ with him?

The sound that came from the man’s lips was neither earthly nor, frankly, physically possible. Like a razor blade, the sound cut his ears, freezing him where he stood. It was deep, but shrill, but close, but impossibly far. It _floored_ him.

“ _So far,_ ” the occultist whispered, staring past him and through him and _into_ him; “ _So far; so far…_ ”

He brushed past Oxenmoor and off-kilter-stumbled into the night.

_His eyes_ —! His eyes had been— those _couldn’t_ have been his eyes.

* * *

“Oxenmoor!” Vatteville tore past Lhuillier to corner the heiress’ hand against a wall. He sneered, but Vat saw the guilt behind it and stayed firm. It didn’t matter; none of that mattered right now. “Have you seen Sigman?”

The man’s sneer went from petulant to disturbed. “Seen him,” he muttered, still squeezed up against the cobble. More clearly; “Yes. Yeah. I seen— I saw him.” He’d been looking right at them but now his gaze was targeting his boots. A shiver went up Vatteville’s spine; an uneasy tickle.

“Where.” Flat with urgency. Lhuillier had caught up and was poised behind them like a bodyguard. Suddenly they had become comrades; how… weird.

Oxenmoor fumbled for his thoughts. “He went— he was— wasn’t— he—”

“ _Where_?”

“It wasn’t _him_ ,” he confessed, flinching at the mere memory. “It _couldn’t_ be him— his eyes—! ...He left. He left. He’s gone.” He certainly wasn’t trying to persuade _Vatteville_ of the fact. “He’s _gone_.”

“ _Fuck._ ” It didn’t take an expert to gauge that Sigman’s ever-present Voidish companionship might have reached in and stolen the reins. “Fine. Damn it. _Damn it_.” _Gone._ Light.

“I resign my position,” Lhuillier blurted, and Oxenmoor stared at her like she’d just saved his life; she frowned somewhere between sorrow and defiance.

“...That makes my job a lot easier,” he finally muttered, shell-shocked. “That’s— Thank you.”

“Sigman,” Vatteville reminded him.

He shook his head to clear it, crossing his arms and exhaling. “He’s— unless he’s found within the hour, he’s out, ‘s’well. Not having this— not putting up with something like _that_.” He may have been drunk, but Vatteville knew he was serious. So Sigman’s job was on the line, if not his fucking _life_. They huffed. Too much; too damn much was _happening_ this night! From Gaveston’s death there had been kicked up some noxious dust-storm of discomfort.

“Vatteville—” he began.

“Just drop it.” They didn’t mean to take out their frustrations on him but, well, they couldn’t deny he deserved it for his earlier actions. “It’s of no importance.”

“It won’t happen again,” he said, and the ghost of his sober, professional self shone through a moment.

“Fine,” Vatteville grunted. “Don’t care. Lhuillier, do you happen to know anything about a head?” They’d just remembered a piece of their and Sigman’s earlier conversation. It might be nothing, but…

Lhuillier frowned. “You’ve not seen it? You were in the mortuary—”

“ _Just_ — tell me what it’s about.”

With an uncharacteristic meekness, she explained: “The Collector - one of the heads it summoned, it was Dismas’ head.”

The shiver again.

“Sigman said it was a, a Void-construct, or, or something like that. Said it wasn’t _really_ Dismas.”

“And it wasn’t—” _Was it?_

“No!”

“No.” ‘Course not. Stupid. “Then how—”

Lhuillier rolled her eyes, but beneath that was a genuine hurt. “I don’t know, Vatteville; I was a little _preoccupied_.”

Right— right. Gaveston. _Too damn much_. Oxenmoor was shuffling carefully away, as if he thought they might strike at him. Huh! As if Vatteville even had the energy to _try._ They went to push their mask up but they had discarded it _long_ before; _damn it_! They tried to groan but it came out sounding more like a whimper. In their momentary disorientation they hardly noticed Lhuillier moving past them;

“Which way did he go?”

“Eh?” Oxenmoor stiffened, pretending he’d not just been trying to sneak past.

“Sigman. Which way?” She closed in on him, got up in his face. Her mace hand went to her belt and for a moment even Vatteville was convinced she might act violently.

“N-north, I think?” Oxenmoor held up his hands and, comically, looked to _Vatteville_ — as though there was a damn thing they could do. Seeing no help, he pointed as he backed away; “That way. He went that way.”

“Towards the mortuary— you don’t suppose—?” Lhuillier stared off in the direction of Oxenmoor’s point. “We need to go.” She tensed up like she was going to start running— hang on!

Vatteville _just_ managed to catch her by the arm. “Watch your stomach,” they said distantly, still half-distracted by the idea of Dismas’ head being part of the heiress’ growing array of trinkets. “Mind you don’t tear anything.”

“Fine,” Lhuillier assented, sighing. “But, to the best of my ability, I plan to hurry.” And hurry she did, and Vatteville followed with her, leaving Oxenmoor staring dumbly after them - perhaps wondering what on earth could have tied the two together. Fair; Vatteville was wondering that, themself.

* * *

“Not as bad as I expected,” Dismas signed haphazardly. He was still only halfway-fluent, mostly for lack of trying. Sometimes he got the notion that, if he just gave up the hand signs, his mouth might catch up to his communication needs. Wasn’t really working out.

The head _was_ disturbing, but— he hardly saw it as his _own_ head; after all, his own head was resting now atop his shoulders. There was a… disassociation. A logical leap that his brain just wouldn’t (couldn’t?) make. “Y’alright?”

“It really is— it’s. _Light._ ” Poor Reynauld. He’d brought the stupid thing all the way back here. For him, the head _was_ Dismas - there was no level of consciousness to keep him from assuming that _this_ head, the head resting on the counter in front of them, was Dismas’ own. He took Reynauld’s hand and squeezed; the knight squeezed weakly back. Poor Reynauld, he thought again. He’d thought— he’d thought—!

“S’right,” he said. “‘M here. Put it aw— ‘way.” Cursed thing. Be damned if he didn’t want to just burn or bury it. Though - Light shows the thing might be _connected_ to him somehow.

“Mm. Yeah.” Hoarse, Reynauld muttered further agreement as he bagged the head in canvas. Dismas frowned at the thought of keeping it around— but… perhaps it also had some use? Stranger things had happened. The phrase was quickly becoming a mantra for him.

Wait. Stranger things had _not_ happened. This _was_ the stranger thing. Light. _Fuck_ this.

“Rey. We d-done, here?”

A shaky nod, and Reynauld slowly let himself be turned towards the door. Dismas felt his pocket for the mortuary key. It’d been hidden underneath the steps’ railing; clever but not ingenious. He supposed, though, that not many people tried to break into a morgue.

As they exited, they were rushed into by Sigman, who pushed past without so much as a sound. Was he—? Reynauld turned, also, and Dismas caught his look of concern. “Nn,” he said, shaking his head a little. Not tonight. Not now. _Enough._

Reynauld hesitated, but at length nodded, holding onto Dismas’ hand with firm conviction. “Right,” he whispered. “Let’s just go.”

Let’s just go, indeed, Dismas thought, and they weren’t twenty yards from the steps before another figure - nay, two - nearly bowled them over.

“Lhuil?”

“Reynauld?”

“Oh, for _fuck’s sake_.”

“Vat? Where— what are— you— is—?” Reynauld hardly ever fumbled his words; Dismas almost laughed. Something in Vatteville’s exclamation had sobered him, though - a flat, worried exhaustion that weighed down their steps.

“Did Sigman come by here?” Lhuillier took the lead on conversing; just as well, Vatteville looked to be hanging squarely between fury and fatigue.

Reynauld cocked his head. “Y-yes, actually— just now, he rushed past. Why; is he— is something wrong?” They all knew the answer without saying it.

“Morgue,” Dismas grunted, and Vatteville stalked past without a sound in that direction. Reynauld immediately turned, and Dismas hadn’t the heart to hold him back. After all, if there really _was_ trouble…

Vat and Lhuil could handle themselves, but he had the sneaking suspicion that something evil was upon them, and he hated taking chances.

Sigman had broken the doors open _silently_ somehow, leaving the doorframes smashed and the hinges shaky. Dismas tried to keep his footsteps quiet, but there was broken glass from the window nearest the front - what _force_! What _excess_! It shook him. Reynauld, too, balked, but Vatteville didn’t pause, moving doggedly into the back room. Where Dismas and Reynauld had _just_ been, and, hang on, had Sigman come here to—?

And there he was.

The worst part about it was that it _was_ Sigman. Certainly, there lingered that dark cloud about him - the Presence which, Dismas realized, he’d _always_ somewhat carried - but the body standing before them in the morgue was only human, flesh and blood. It wasn’t at all like the head, which was so clearly an Eldritch artifact; this was only Sigman, and he was only _lost_.

He didn’t look at them as they entered, but, from the way his posture stiffened, Dismas knew he’d taken note. Vatteville saw it, too, and abandoned all pretense of stealth.

“Sigman?” they asked, carefully approaching half-step by half-step, one hand defensively raised. “Care to explain yourself?”

The occultist’s head jerked a little towards them, but still he did not turn. “I can _see_ ,” he whispered. “I can see— so _far_ —!” In one hand he held not-Dismas’ head upside-down, his fingers hooked up through the roof of its mouth. The grip made Dismas wince in sympathy.

“Come back to us, Sigman,” the doctor tried, reaching out to him. He faltered.

“I want to,” he gasped, still in his senseless, Voidish whisper, mouth moving irregularly to the words, “but It would never let me. This _was_ the bargain.”

“Stand firm,” Vatteville pled. Dismas was starting to feel like a mere accessory to the scene. Briefly, he wondered whether Reynauld and Lhuillier felt the same.

Sigman finally turned to face them. His eyes shone - from _something,_ something alien and malignant, something Dismas felt even the Void might not quite understand. “I wish I could,” he said sadly. “This - this shouldn’t be happening now.”

“Sigman—”

“ _Stop_ ,” he said, and the exasperation in his voice compelled them to obey. “Stop. Let me go. You have _no idea_ what you’re infringing upon.”

“Sigman— _please_.”

“Please,” Dismas echoed, without knowing exactly why, and to his either side he heard Reynauld and Lhuillier plead same.

The occultist winced. “I do _so badly_ want to,” he rasped through ragged breaths; “I so badly want to heed you. If I only—” and he stopped, and suddenly there were tears in his eyes, obscuring that terrible glow—

And the building around them _flickered_.

Like a blown flame. In and out and— for a moment, _gone_ , then as it was, then as it _had been_ with its doors and windows all intact - and Dismas swore he saw some ghostly mimic of _himself_ over to one side—

And then they were back, and Sigman had further receded. It was plain, from his dull eyes to his fighting stance, that reason could no longer reach him. As Dismas began to grasp this fact, the occultist suddenly raised both his hands.

An extension of Presence - not _his_ any longer - flung itself over Dismas’ shoulders and constricted, binding him in place despite his struggles. Desperately scouting the room for some tool or route, he saw Reynauld held to the floor by both legs, and Lhuillier bound to the wall rather painfully around the middle.

Vatteville had lunged forward, but this was clearly a mistake— a Void-length that might have cinched their torso instead hoisted them skyward by the arm, and their broken howl as they dangled suggested the move had done serious damage.

“ _Sigman!_ ” Reynauld bark-growled, but to no avail, for the building flickered just once more to hand the possessed occultist his easy escape. As the walls reappeared in place, the Voidish matter suspending or binding the hapless mercenaries vanished as suddenly as it had come, letting Vatteville fall and freeing the rest.

_"Fuck_ ,” the doctor managed as Dismas, the closest, reached them. “Shouldn’t’ve moved.” The wounded arm was still locked as it had been held, up over their head; they didn’t even try to sit up. Lhuillier staggered over with her hands around her waist— Dismas suddenly felt a flash of anger towards Sigman, where previously all he’d felt was pity. To be imprisoned by some nameless Void-force was one thing - to wound one’s allies, quite another.

Lhuillier pushed him aside and he let her, figuring she’d have a much better grasp of how to help Vatteville than he did. Sure enough, a few careful motions and he _heard_ their shoulder fall back into place. He’d never seen a dislocation like that - then again, he’d never seen someone lifted so quickly by their arm, either. At any rate, and much to his relief, Vatteville seemed lucid - if shaken - and winced only a little as they pushed themself upright. “Ah,” they said, glancing past, over Dismas’ shoulder; “The doors are back.”

So they were. Reynauld stepped to at once… Dismas realized moments before his futile tug that, as any self-respecting rogue would, he had locked up after their earlier exit.

“Excellent,” Vatteville griped, leaning on the leg of the center table. “What’s the point of double-locking a mortuary door? I mean—” they huffed as they tucked their left arm into their robes, a makeshift sling; “I mean. Who’s going to be breaking _out_ of a _morgue_?” Dismas could tell from their irritation that they were only trying to take their mind off of matters at hand. He grimaced. If he’d just thought to bring a damn gun—! Or, hell, forget _himself_ ; if Sigman had never come to this Light-forsaken Hamlet—

“It _would_ happen _here_ ,” Reynauld said drily, giving the door a final, halfhearted shake. “I’m certainly eager to explain this to Gage, come morning.”

“If only for it to already _be_ morning,” Vatteville grumpily agreed, head resting back against the table with a dull, metallic _thud_.

Lhuillier had fallen silent, and Dismas glanced over to see her staring fixedly at what he’d previously assumed to be nothing more than another length of countertop. More clearly, now, he saw the squared form for what it was - a sheet-draped coffin.

_Light._

* * *

Pantoul curled up tighter in xir bedsheets. Xir head hurt from the Beast’s insistent growling behind xir eyes, but xe held firm. No more! No more of… whatever was going on between them. Making xem say things xe never would’ve said on xir own; damn it.

Judge was pacing back and forth between Dufay’s bed and the corner, indecisive. The constant click of her nails on the stone was driving Pantoul up a wall; finally, xe could stand it no longer, and shoved the bundle of sheets over so the dog didn’t have to choose.

She flopped down beside xem without hesitation, and Pantoul had to admit it was nice to have a body pushed up against xir back like that. Xe wondered if sleeping in a bed alone could measure up to this. She gave a warm doggy sigh and xe decided that, no, it couldn’t.

Dufay… xir hands involuntarily twitched close to xir chest. Xe hadn’t _disliked_ the contact, but…

Xe remembered that rush xe had felt when Vatteville had first invited xem to stay at their station. This feeling… it hurt even _more_ than that - not _hurt_ , really, but it _pulled_ somehow, it pulled _weird_ , and it made Pantoul feel as if xe was on the edge of a steep incline. And… well, it was _scary_. So scary even the Beast didn’t want to face it - not entirely. A part of it, a part of both of them, wanted to hold onto the feeling, but—! But a larger and more terrified part of them just wanted to _run._ They wanted to get away from this place and back to somewhere they _knew -_ somewhere darker, yes; somewhere more desolate… but at least it was a somewhere where they knew where they fit in.

Hamlet was a _risk_ \- an enticing one, certainly, but a risk nonetheless - and Pantoul… the Beast… both of them knew that all it took was one faulty step - one _minute fraction_ of misplaced trust - to spell their end.

In spite of all that Hamlet and its residents had done for them… Pantoul _would not_ make a mistake that might get xirself trapped, not even here.

Something foreign brushed xir side and xe raised xir head and hackles. No— no. It was only—

It was Dufay’s hand, again, limply dangling off his bed as he snored gently above xem. It was just barely resting against Pantoul’s chest, fingers loose and inert. Pantoul let xir head fall back into the sheets, but xe couldn’t relax like this, nor could xe risk moving the hand - xe couldn’t explain the overwhelming rush of terror at the prospect of waking Dufay via touching his hand, but it was so potent it _burned_ in xir throat. Light; what had xe done to deserve this?

The hand was still. Pantoul breathed shallow breaths to keep from jostling it. The Beast was _whining_ like a _baby_. _Shut up!_

The point of contact, the little spot of skin where Dufay touched xem, was _so hot_ , and it was _all Pantoul could feel_. It was as if all xir soul had been anchored there, as if all other sensation radiated outward from that spot.

Xir breathing wouldn’t slow and wouldn’t deepen, so xe wound up lightheaded - or had xe been already? The Beast was pawing at the chains, now; yelping and whimpering; it was _talking_ , too, but Pantoul couldn’t think to hear it. All of xir _being_ was relocated to the side of xir torso. The Beast would just have to endure.

The hand fucking _squeezed_. Just a little - just enough to notice - so faint xe might _not_ have noticed had their brain not been entirely sharp-focused on the area - and Pantoul had to bite xir lip to keep from bursting into tears. Xe _didn’t_ hate the feeling, but xe wanted to run from it, and then xe just felt _filthy_ for wanting to run from Dufay - and from something as innocuous as an accidental brush of the hand. Xe was _embarrassed_ , and _scared_ , and so, so, _so ungodly touch-sensitive_ \- xe could feel every _thread_ in xir sheets, and every one of Judge’s hairs against xir back, and _for Light’s sake, xe could feel Dufay’s_ heartbeat _through his fingers_.

It was all too much. Xir breathing quickened further until there wasn’t enough air to think by, and xe somehow fell asleep - or unconscious. The feeling never left, though, even in xir sleep - that one spot of pure fire, shooting into xir chest, making xir heart pound blood and acid as if it were trying to sustain an extra body.

* * *

All four morgue prisoners wound up pressed against the far wall, eyes trained on the coffin. Well - save for Vatteville’s, as they’d fallen asleep (or, perhaps, unconscious) some little while ago, perhaps soothed by the others' presence - perhaps exhausted from all that had transpired. Their head was resting on one of Dismas’ shoulders; Reynauld had lain his chin on the other. Dismas, ever the watchful eye, kept his back straight and his gaze focused. Lhuillier, to Reynauld’s right, was equally alert - if not more so.

He felt bad, knowing she was trapped in the same room with the corpse of her best friend, but— well. Ultimately, Reynauld was more focused on processing the plight of their occultist. He’d only just arrived - what business had the Darkness over the Estate for seizing him? And what had he meant when he said he could see ‘so far’?

It disturbed him greatly. Reynauld liked to purport himself as a child of the Light, but he’d frankly no clue as to where such concepts fit into the chaos and the desolation of Hamlet and its adjacent lands. Rarely, but at times like these, he wondered if the Light even _reached_ this cursed place.

He’d half a mind to ask Lhuillier’s opinion on the matter - but, seeing her there, sitting mournful vigil, he supposed he’d best not disturb her.

At length, even he couldn’t hold off sleep any longer. Exhausted from the Collector, from the head, and now from Sigman, he nuzzled into Dismas’ neck and let himself fall.

* * *

_Everyone_ showed up to the funeral, even poor old Pantoul, hovering on the fringes like xe was afraid to even approach. For all her staunch decorum, Lhuillier was deeply moved. She resolved, at least, to thank xem, if nothing else. She could barely speak for crying. Still - xe deserved her thanks.

In a way, the prior night’s imprisonment in the morgue had helped her come to terms with Gaveston’s death. Where she’d once been wildly and indirectly angry, now there was only grief. Even weeping into her habit, she recognized this, and was grateful. She was grateful to _Sigman_ for that.

Vatteville wavered between ranks - mostly sticking near Dufay; occasionally drifting closer. Besides the Abomination, they seemed to be the least comfortable attending, but Lhuillier was nonetheless appreciative. She felt sorry, in a way, that they’d not been present at Gaveston’s death. Some kind of immeasurable secondhand guilt.

She managed to get close to Pantoul afterwards, while Gage and some folk she didn’t know by name shoveled dirt in the background. She was fleeing the burial, she supposed, with a dead, humorless smirk. Xe tried to duck away but she hurried to block. All she had to do was say her piece and leave xem to it.

“Pantoul, wait,” she said, putting up a hand that xe promptly ran into. They both looked at the point of contact in surprise - belatedly, she realized that touching xem might read as more than a little out of line. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I mean— that is—”

“‘S nothing,” xe mumbled, and tried to turn away. Lhuillier danced around to cut xem off again;

“Wait— wait. I need to tell you—”

“Lightsakes,” xe whispered, “don’t. Don’t.”

“Don’t forgive him.”

Pantoul’s head snapped up so hard she heard xir neck crack; “ _What_?” The wonder in xir voice emboldened her, and she pressed on.

“Don’t forgive— don’t waste time— forgiving him. I’m leaving— I’m sure you knew. Don’t bother— don’t—” Oh, _damn_ her tears! “Please, Pantoul; just— I’m so sorry. I should have told you on the road back to Hamlet; I should have told the— the Beast. I should have—”

“‘S alright,” xe said thickly, and when she finally mustered the strength to look at xem, she could see fresh and stale tear-tracks on xir face. “Thanks for tellin’ me now.”

All Lhuillier could do was nod uselessly and try not to choke on her own sobbing. Pantoul smiled sadly a little— _smiled_! At _her_! Like she’d done a damn thing to—

“I been thinking about leaving,” xe said softly. “I been thinking— since last night. But…” Xe turned and Lhuillier followed xir gaze to where Dufay and Vatteville were sulking. “...Well. I dunno.”

“Was it— did _we_ drive you to—”

“No,” xe said, voice still so gentle it hurt, “Not even close. The opposite, really.” Xe paused, frowning thoughtfully. “If you could have left this place earlier - if you’d known then what you know now - would you run?”

Lhuillier thought about it only a moment. Right here - standing not twenty yards from the grave of the only person who’d ever cared enough to try to change her, surrounded by people whose care for each other left her feeling empty and outcast - the answer was painful but obvious. “Yes,” she whispered.

The change in Pantoul’s expression was _immediate_. “Should I run?” xe asked, breathless and afraid.

Lhuillier thought she might be torn apart. “I don’t know,” she managed. Her heartbeat roared in her ears. “What’s telling you to run?”

Pantoul looked at her and all xir flat despair sharpened into pure, animal fear. “ _Everything."_

* * *

Of course Oxenmoor would be drinking. Pantoul regarded the man’s discarded glasses with mixed revulsion and envy. Oh, what xe wouldn’t give to be able to let go of xir reservations, even if just for the night. But, regardless of the Beast’s tenuous allyship, xe still intended to rein it in.

“I want to leave,” xe stated bluntly. “But I want a guaranteed position when I return.”

Oxenmoor blinked owlishly up at xem. “Leave?” he echoed.

“For a time.”

With a bleary head-shake, his eyes sharpened. “How long?”

Pantoul bit back an annoyed snarl; “As long as it takes! I want to leave, and then return; that’s all there is!”

Oxenmoor sighed and swirled the dregs in his current glass. “Mm. And what’s to guarantee your tur— your return?”

This time xe really did growl; “ _I swear on my life_.”

To Pantoul’s utter, offended shock, the drunkard before him _snorted._ “What value’s that got here,” he slurred. Before xe could think xir fists slammed hard into the table;

“I should think,” xe gritted painfully, “as much as any other.” And for the first time, xe almost believed it.

Oxenmoor frowned and looked almost mournful as he considered, which was a good few minutes of thought. “...I can’t cast off _another_ hire,” he sighed sadly. “We’ve lost so fucking much. You’ll have your slot.”

“Then I’m off,” Pantoul said, still in xir bestial rumble. Would that xe never had to speak with _him_ again. _He_ wouldn’t be missed.

The rest, though—

“Pantoul?” Fuck—! _Fuck._ Xe’d not seen them when xe’d entered—! “So soon?”

“Vat,” xe huffed, shoulders slumping. “Don’t make a scene.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” they said, tugging off their mask with their right hand. Even after the dramatic lockout in the morgue (which they’d admitted to falling asleep during) they looked sleepy. “Come outside.”

Xe did, but only because that was where xe had been going, anyway.

“The least you could do is say goodbye,” the doctor mumbled. No, they didn’t look sleepy; they looked _tired._ “Surely, we deserve that.”

“ _I_ don’t—”

“Do you need to bring anything with you?”

Xe paused. How eager were they to see xem off? But, no— looking at their shadowed face, xe admitted that xe saw not a shred of excitement. “No,” xe said, softening. “Just me.”

“I could give you some things— herbs, or, clothing; food, even—”

“Just me.” A whisper. Xe felt as though xe was reliving the funeral.

Vatteville nodded jerkily and pushed their hand across their face— _Light_. They—

“I’m coming back—!” xe blurted, pushing past the lump in xir throat. “I— I’m going to come back. I just need time— need to— need to try and— remember myself.”

More nodding, just like Lhuillier during their similar discussion. “‘Course,” they rasped. “‘Course.”

“Tell Dufay— tell him that I promise. I _promise_ I’ll come back.” Pantoul was weeping, suddenly— xe’d never made a promise before. Vatteville nodded again. They were right on the cusp of joining xem in tears. “I _promise_ ,” xe repeated lamely, and before xe could bear witness to Vatteville crying, xe turned and fled. It was the worst feeling in the world, abandoning them there - abandoning _everyone_ there.

Xe was running, running with xir hands, half-Beast. It was singing in xir ears and head, roaring with unbridled pain. It wanted to go back. It wanted to run. It wanted to _die._

It wanted to— hang on.

A familiar form raced up beside them on all fours, then butted their side to slow them. Pantoul assented, skidding to a halt and allowing Judge to plow into xem full-force. Xe burst into tears again. _Light_. _Light._ Xe really was leaving all of this?

Dufay’s hand appeared in xir memory; just the hand, and it was all at once too much. “Go on,” xe muttered, pushing Judge away. As xe did, xir hand brushed something lodged beneath her collar. A little slip of paper—

 

_‘Half a mind but twice the heart_

_(Would that I could be so whole)_

_Arise and rend the chains apart_

_In which injustice bound this soul.’_

 

Oh, _Light--!_

And Pantoul wished xe wasn’t, but xe found xirself running again. Dimly, xe thought of Vatteville’s leeches, of Dismas's trusting nod, of Reynauld's thanks, of Dufay’s limp hand over xir back. A deep longing burned in xir heart, and all xe could do was run from it.

_But I’ll come back_ , xe vowed, even as xe leapt the Hamlet stream and blinked the tears from xir eyes. _I’ll come back. Once I fix myself, I_ will _come back._

Two steps into the woods, the Beast pushed out and twisted itself into shape, roaring and whimpering and snuffling, doubling and then tripling their speed, a run like it had never before maintained. Not even after the monastery had it ran like this. Somewhere, it could smell the Void; somewhere, it could smell the stars. Mostly, though, all it could smell was its own shame.


End file.
